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.
