Oh, there is light in such places:
The galleries of Soho, the catwalks of Milan, the boardwalks of Blackpool,
But it exists to flatter, to obfuscate, to tell alluring lies,
A trompe l’oeil of a family picnic on the wall of an abandoned orphanage,
The siren song crooned by a spider to the enraptured and wholly credulous fly.
Ah, but the illumination here!
The sun reflecting off the roofs on the Bob Evans and Shoney’s you would shun,
The starlight backed by a host of owls, a symphony of crickets,
All serving to peel away the layers of artifice and cunning,
To be shucked away like so many cornhusks,
Allowing the secrets of the universe to be whispered to you,
Faintly yet unmistakably, and once moved by these epiphanies
What is to stop you from running along the narrow, unlined streets
And the green open spaces in mad, unfashionable celebration,
Exempt from the clucking of the chic and the congnoscenti?