Remember the neon architecture of the pavilion,
The enchanted little goat cart, so distracted.
The piers are bull faced baggage handlers;
The bare teeth of rebar snarling from this half built bridge
Is a glimpse at Hell’s blood vessels. The distant
Homeless catch buses and pass aromas of stung failure
And curry into the dream of aristocratic car dealerships.
Underneath the 39th street over pass our coachman
Strings plastic bags of graffiti along a wire like fish.
What frigid wind is this so out of place
Among the walking furnaces? What light out of the ruins
Causes all the children to get fat off of remorse?
No comments:
Post a Comment