Few are admitted to the
Tower of the Sky.

Aspirants
await the ivy gates of dawn,
waving credentials and
begging for crumbs.

Professore! Professore!
Mia anima sta sanguinando…

When Jupiter pauses in the
House of Cassiopeia, golden-robed
Lords convoke the lottery,
bid one into their fellowship.

The unelect slump down the hill toward town.
Every window mocks them.
Every alleyway invites them in.
_______________

Long Liz sang the loudest. Right, then.

I seen ‘em, I did.
Cult of woolves, smart in their jemmy
tweeds, late off a plunge with Lady
Laycock, I’d wager,

their ‘eads shimply
shocking with velocity, guv’,

slank from street
to post
slashing for dollymops.

Dio mio! Dio mio!
Perché mi hai abbandonato?

Be not there, Citizen, he said.
And he give me a look…