The Charity Of Night
Big city Europa - July of 64 - It's 5AM

Weather blowing bitter off the Baltic.



Car slows beside him as he walks

Hubcaps slow revolution

Jaundiced-looking pockmarked face, round in window

Short greasy black beard



Couple of language stabs, settle on English

"It's cold - I give you ride.

Don't you want to kiss me?"



This goes on halfway across the cobbled bridge

Driver pulls ahead - gets out by the construction fence

Ambles towards him rubbing the bulge in his pants



In his jacket is the revolver

The hand is already in the pocket for warmth and fingers slide easily around wood grips



Slow as that predator's footsteps the gun comes out

Arm straightens, sight blade bisecting yellow forehead

Wind - blue metal streetlight - Faint twilight shining on the corners of stones.



Wave on wave of life

Like the great wide ocean's roll

Haunting hands of memory

Pluck silver strands of soul

The damage and the dying done

The clarity of light

Gentle bows and glasses raised

To the charity of night



Slow revolution - 1985 - crosswise in a hammock in the hot volcanic hills

Its 3AM the night after the air raid

From the ridge she watched A37s, like ugly gulls,

Make a dozen swooping passes over some luckless town

Maybe ten kliks beyond the border

In the distance the Pacific glimmered silver



Now lascivious laughter floats on the darkness from the police post next door-

Male voices - and a woman's -

Little clouds of desire painted around the edges with rum

In the muddy street a pig suddenly screams



Wave on wave of life

Like the great wide ocean's roll

Haunting hands of memory

Pluck silver strands of soul

The damage