Country cold night rain

grinds lonely streets

into obsidian gems,

polishing away time and flaws.

Tarred roads and tar babies merge–

twins balancing on Siamese tension–

tumble into macadam hopes

of pot-hole-dodging dreamers.

Art and government fuse,

melt black in disappointment’s sun.

Dark nights–

darkest for blind eyes–

are, too, dark for the dead.

Friends lost

to anonymity’s lust

have stumbled on homes at last,

sleep now

in beds unbroken at dawn.

Silence,

sharp as a stone-cutter’s tool,

shatters obsidian streets into diamonds of despair.