Monday, January 21, 2008


SCHEMATIC

I see eager bodies wasted beneath bed sheets,
late-shadow buses taking strangers to a place

where they ring the cord, Stop.

Street lights are the split-open veins of night.

This is a place that still sleeps.

What is cold was once warm.


Factories in their steady grease of silence, the old man drunk on the porch-step, letting
secrets slip, broken electronic bits swept off

the work floor, and in the dust

his grand-kids make turtle-shells, dinosaur bones

from the brittle shavings he brings home.

Monsters