They may be empty, but the beat
Of echoing footsteps, and the heat
From long-left tires means instead
They twitch and burn in infrared.
The day is always incomplete;
Only the lamps can make the street
Become itself, when it can shed
The humdrum ordinariness
Of the commuters. What is left
Behind, and what emerges then
Is a beatific, beauteous mess.
I hate the daybreak for its theft
Until the dusk brings it again.
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