There were strange gatherings. A vote would come

that would be no vote. There would come a rope.

Yes. There would come a rope.

Men have their hats down. “Dancing in the Dark”

will see him up, car-radio-wise. So many, some

won’t find a rut to park.

It is in the occasions, that—not the fathomless heart—

the thinky death consists;

his chest is pinched. The enemy are sick,

and so is us of. Often, to rising trysts,

like this one, drove he out

and gasps of love, after all, had got him ready.

However things hurt, men hurt worse. He’s stark

to be jerked onward?

Yes. In the headlights he got’ keep him steady,

leak not, look out over. This’ hard work,

boss, wait’ for The Word.