Some will say the hands,
the faces, the eyes of city boys
State stasis, state indifference
But the hands like Daryl's
are living wisps of anger
dealing cards, lighting white-hot cigarettes.

One might wish to kiss them, brandishing scorn,
anointed in the fire of living to tell it all.
Here you might find Daryl.
Daryl - Dancing on this street

Little boy of what are you thinking
when your brows go dark
and take on the mark of Cain?
of the crippled who, having, dare not give,
of the able, who, giving, forget to live?

Boy what are you thinking
from what tense board does your anger spring?
of power, of peace, of the human dilemma

Daryl, dancing on this street...

"Daryl dances in a box
He dances the angles,
Dances a strand of wind, amenities in hand.

Chances defining how light
by velocity squared
mimes a spark beside your darkness,
dispelling singularity.

Think of Daryl on a corner
in the last fingertips of morning
where grace notes of sunlight
flit upon your lips and your eyes.

Think of Daryl...