Best viewed in landscape orientation

Twelve o'clock.

Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations

Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,

Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,

And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.