The watchman took due note unguardedly.

The whistler wasnt breaking any laws.

Indeed the hand-off seemed so charming he
resisted squashing it as why cement
sharp lookout on flat spiracle and thighs?
By day the guard resumed his fleabag rent.
Cricket scraped by on crumby alibis.
The hive could have the light. They worked the night
comrades-in-arms, in legs, in phosphor light.

A version of this poem appears in Serpentrope, by Norman Ball