a stock Stearman


Tons of midnight asphalt
Burn the streets of July;
And the glory of glitter is coloured fire,
Heat storm, dark interludes
Of music & roulette.

Indigo deepens, and
A damp, purple motel maid
Watches with green eyes
From a shadowed balcony
At dawn.

Ghosts like lighted naiads
Shimmer across the desert floor;
While slot machines wearing white aprons
And red, beehive hairdos
Collect silver dollars.

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