The screen collapses into planes
of colour as the clock
ticks and the sirens fade

on the table the cloths are
laid out - black, purple,
gold, rose, plans for cutting,

and all there is, is the
hum in the head as the
wires, crossed, fizz and
tingle carrying voices

from far away
like a radio signal, broken,
jumbled, hissing, they
say and say incessantly

the moving and the grinding,
the grinding of bone
and fingers bare
and the treading feet

over the years like roads
and the trials like hills
terrain to the horizon
covered with stars

the silent sky moving
and the gaze into the past
our scopes view and view
out, and down in

as if in looking and
lenses, we could see
the way before our feet
walked it

all stars fade in the morning
and the grey light falls
like dust over the city
the pall that covers us

as we wake and rise
yawning, tired, to the
well-worn track
one for each, and don't look back.
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