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Peeping Tom
The tides of light and brine are shadows of the moon, Tom, sailor of sights or dull crow harassed by headlights and sparrows- his shadow billows breathlessly on an alley wall, the filthy sea becalmed, his yellow beak into the night air peaked to see someone smile to someone or undress. Queer Street climbs skyward like an ivory tower, the houses nod night-hooded or fire-eyed, the starved greyhound curls asleep in its ribs, and Harlequin, in black skullcap and polka-dot pajamas pauses before each queer step to hear: ooh, has he disturbed, anywhere, a cruel squeak or murmur? To watch is human, to see divine, and if explodes any amber in there the heart opens like an eye on blue water, the moon a flagship to its cold sin. Tom's heart is grimed and spineless, its shell is limestone or ringed like a section of tree. It hopes for queer complicity and yet goes forth to get scolded; it acquiesces as if deaf wood or blind, and when the truth is squeezed for its juice it winces like an oyster: that was no Tupperware party where he heard you giggle, that was The Eagle Motel, and that was no cousin or girlfriend, honey, but an old intrigue come back to town, swept up by the tide, a leg that squirts salt water and leaves a hole in the sand, another romantic who thinks meaning's made of seaweed sheets, rock spray, white stars, and a stray clam.