No romantic swill 

just a straight shot of rotgut

and a hat tip bye 

Pauvre bête, ground down 

over time, potential turned 

to couche-couche, consumed  

In the distance a

saxophone plays as the sun

sets on a dead town

Some days an inner 

fire rages and asks rather

rudely for release 

A calliope

plays a haunting tune, echos 

through psychic cloisters 

Gone so long you've been 

but in every corner 

there you are again 

A trace of perfume 

on the air, but no one in 

sight — ghostly ascent?