A secret lust runs through them
Here in the streets of Passaic
Where the trees rustle softly in their sheath of copper
Donned for the afternoon
Like warriors in Paradise
Out of place

And a girl stands under the boughs
In her hair a red light shining
The clouds are fingers splayed
The boughs,.fiery fingers splayed
And my own hands splayed at my side, cold as knives
Trembling, waiting, waiting for the moment

Staring at a statue, which will not come
At a statue, blind as stone
Which does not behold my face,
But peers cold and burning through the flesh
Listening to the heart race, the nerves flicker, tremulous and soft

Waiting, waiting for the moment
While all about her the leaves blow
And the wind whips about her face
Her hair; she stands in a sea of leaves

She stands in a sea of leaves and does not falter
Knowing my fear
While the sun goes, and the moon rises high behind her
Here in the streets of Passaic, here.

M. Rephun (c) July 1, 2007