Footfalls by drowning doldrums,
the moon hallowed, cruel, pockmarked.

By the bench a dark haired girl
sings this rite's flow, protean,
wearing a wreath of paper hearts.

The hitchciker circles the dead city
square, tying rubber bands
around locks of her hair,
his dreams lucid and fried,
medium, rare.

Staring at the Madonna,
he has a black eclipse,
fashioning old ribbon clips.

The Holy Hour. Drunk with wine
and picture books,
the moon's ambrosia
misses him at high volume.

The dark haired girl sings,
stitching the mane, spinning
the dead eye's holy still,
calm in the moon's pitiless,
hound eyed sainthood.