Dec 19, 2003

The sun phoebus
ignites the glass box, the
forgotten public
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.

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