under winter coldest stars the rural burg

refuge of a toiling caste in remains of a dream

stronghold of brave young mamas

dodging grimey bristled beggars

huddled at night downlane

wornout worker bees quaffing on the cheap

puffing in the alleys, refuge of the sinners

their urchins wheezing new diseases of the world

and yet will any here deign to drop a dime

in a bellringer’s bucket just the same

for that worndown ancient tale

mystery of a god showing up

beyond notice of the sparkly noise

in the alleydark as one of us

humana incognita

the quiet consideration

of such a thing