Here, in the city of jazz,
the tigers in my dreams
weep neon tears.
I awaken each morning
to the soft moans and
murmurings of the restless dead.
Fine hard snow falls upon the city.
The world strikes
a single note:
C flat..
This has nothing
to do with sex,
or the Kabbalah,
or the nature
of irrational numbers.
David Kowalczyk
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thorns-upon-the-alien-corn/
