Reading at the Temple.
Sunday evening lights
sink shiny diamond studs
under several layers
of sweaty poetry made for
a microphone balanced
on metal pod.
One man whimpers about
his love while a dog
bears razor teeth outside.
Two women attempt rhyming couplets
atop squeaky leather barstools
while flies sip their drinks.
Later the night stencils
a moon and several stars,
as a young brash MC announces
winners in winter slam.
We applaud, then see off
tipsy flies in constellated splendour.
