For the ghosts of they who passed by the night before by Jonathan Beale

Early Sunday Morning 1930 by Edward Hopper


You don’t see us

Along life’s rails

The sleepers and paths

That veers away from

The split infinite.

Of the fire and

Passed by; under the window’s

Eyes, closed on the world.


The rats and foxes

On night maneuverers.

You cannot see them in doorways

Sanctuaries of the bum.

v. absenteeists.

Words that smooth and caress

All lovers are blind except for Echo –

A cast in these vast stone artefacts.


These places to store…

Created for building & making.

And ‘no’ not us, we’re the bums – lost, strayed.

Just the bums invisible, yet there.

There is reason. There must be. Reason!

Kant’s mind occupied him a lifetime

Sorting those colossal pieces of,

Bishop & knight …


We feel – the fork

No address: no, no, no,

Begging breeds, no ingenuity

The cream always finds

The way up – the wise will

Wield a new way.

We sit, sharing stories

So old now, they become rusted.


Stuck in time. Their cells, their D.N.A.

Become and the story: that grows differently

The scene remains the same.

Life remains until the day grows.

The light cuts the polished shop window.

They have passed away.

The eyes of the morale and the moneyed

Will not see them today.

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