||
***** skulks  
the Midnight Gardens;
Nightly Lit,       looking for fold of flesh
that squeals;
squeamishly, mice cower
in tin corridors
                               farting like backfiring trucks;
& I am the silver sentry,      |      looking for him
                              in the Image of a plastic man,
Oh,                                       |         how she waits
                                             on the Second Shelf;
that has been her home
for many centuries,
her civilization garbled
by comedies [his second half]
written by The Old Poets
||