Poem 60: Homeless in the West End

we have a madness here
crab isolation
fearful sideways running,
no shell over
twilight bodies
as separation becomes
the darling rest
of gutter bedded men,
as in evening atonement
the rain lover
cradles his head
turns his back
on the hard light
and wondering why
(as we do)
presses the unplayed
leaves of his music
between narrow thighs
that swear
a distance between us
and shame
his face
a fortune away
from the people
that walk from the corners
of my eyes
while I am hearing
a split second choir
in the wheels
of a subway train
and know for certain
we have a madness here.