Precipitate precipitation fell
like hypodermic needles down the sky
and turned daylight’s blue bowl into a well.
As night light interrupted by and by
slick asphalt glistened like black ice and shone
with bug-eyed light as Sol sets over sea
so scintillatingly. But minds of stone
care nothing for such beauties, scarcely see
beyond the nearest human being’s eyes,
and do not look up at void, ancient Moon.
It does not matter to them if the skies
are foggy with red, urban light or noon
is thriving with the foxtail wisps of clouds.
Like filagree, they lose themselves in crowds.
