Once you've walked to the door of the earth
and the streets say through your feet
you can't walk here anymore,
scurrying over a mechanistic void
still you make your way
a beat-down shrimp,
a fucking square loser,
one crimson dot,
a pullover,
a sheet to stack over death,
sets of swings on step after step of earth
sun gashed on the prominent path
works of machine engineering
thundering over tenement steps
like the work of shadows with signs and tents
mussel shells in black and silver blats packed over the eyes
a bowler hat on each foot
sweating.