Stuck to your rambling shards

adrift in the cancerous afternoon.

Wandering under a neon star

playing the resurrection game.

Piercing a veil of colossal eyes

above the tin skeletons.

When the door breaks

you will be standing on a curb

of silent traffic.

As the snoring of a dead time

invades the field of the living

and their tired dancers.

Your crane spine

will be holding an obelisk

the shine of narcotic streets

ablaze in your array of faces

flying to the open verse

a machine gun telephone

crucified to your deck of cards

port of the open way

calling wide and calling.