He’s murmuring into his beard,
Curses or prayers, falling
To the stone under his feet.
Crouching by the road, jaundiced eyes
Darting from their hands to mouths,
He whispers to those who would hear,
“The end, the end, the end.”
Clutching his jacket, eyes rolled back,
Whites turned to overcast skies.
Another demon takes him,
Convulsing at Hyde and Sutter while
Shoppers walk past, clutching
Stained glass dreams.