The Devil’s Hands

spider 2

I crossed the park into the city

A webbing of steel carcasses

Exalting a skyline smudged

In charcoals and prosaic blues


There are no angels in this city

Only precarious thighs


I watched each would be consumer

As they weaved their spindly souls

Through red lit alleys and glass facades

Wanton arms leaden,

Dent-less lips liberally greased


The Devil suffers no shortage of idle hands


Impotent souls yield adroitly to greed

Everyone here wants to be someone else

To evade consequence and intimacy

For their fragment of prefab paradise


Empty eyes always hunger