How odd, to see a prenoon sun

absent a hangover's

wincing trepidation

(I must be growing)

is day a reflection

of the darkness it follows?

if so this morning is

tinged with apologies.

I cannot pretend to be

a red cup in the gutter

innocent of every crime

but existence -

each day spent in

this town damns me, but

it is peaceful here on

these unfamiliar paths

Can I stay a while?

I pace themed streets

so (at the sight of red brick)

the taste and scent of

this place, like a slap,

will stop me dead in recollection

This city has two faces -- day smiles

at my attempted memorization

(as if every bird and tree can't tell

that night is my only anticipation)