the hot-dog seller clad
in white that is no longer white
sadly watches passengers
on sidewalks broken decades old

behind the sex lies of magazines
real lips wait to peel you open
in a bus station (today long-distance lover came
to visit from a smashed New York)
enclosed in glowing glass

girlfriends almost lost to memory
and a timid dog wearing black leaves for fur
join hands that are not hands
in an unseen ceremony
nothing dances unless earthquaked, nobody rises
to pick up the phone unless it chimneysmokes

a woman so old and so short, weak steps
silent except when they drag
shrivelling, limp buttocks rising to meet the back of the head
sheep's wool grey-white

dying suns surround our extinguished child

sad passengers still walk when they're too old to move
the city is a dirty bandage
shabbily clothing loneliness
every person walking will be ageless as god

some(dying)day