Like a fanged glass shard
Salivating in sleepy rain,
Another week drips the dregs
Of its hours like watery metal,
Throbbing a wistful glint
Before melding anew.
(The briefest respite of a praying
Ant, catching a breath in the soil).
A missed heartbeat’s silence
As The City's furnace blinks into the
Sleep of the battle wounded, drifts
Into the glide of a ghost bird.
The dreamless sleep of the
Monotonous mass, whose nights are
Warm in the replenishing charge
Of sweating machinery.
They are the crumbs of goldfish feed,
Eyes mired in x-ray-black,
Brains loaded like knotted wires,
Pulsing with digits of warm static:
Slaves to the glass shard
And the gaping abyss that will
Chew and milk them for
Their ripeness at dawn.