The sun phoebus

             ignites the glass box, the

             forgotten public

art, 

             swallow's wings blades

                           of shadow carve out

             my heart to bake

                            in those rays

                            the ghosts will eat

                                       it all.

Steaming manhole covers

                           the ghosts live

                           there, pluck

            hard purple berries from

                           barren vines that cling

            to the grey stone,

                           roseate sucker patterns

            casting lattice shadows,

all this cold beauty, make me

            a machine sans

            ghost in the, freeze me

in the cold beauty,

            the bleeding thing

            lies down

in marble arms.