In a graveyard of machines, dead cars sleep like hunks of fractured stars,
red flowers of mold mark time rusted into metal,
only the sun’s unknown nucleus still rocks like an eternal truth
we can’t grasp, like the blue essence of benzine.

Like jackals, human scavengers rend the metal corpses,
merchandising their poverty and greed in the marketplace,
and in gas-colored nights the metal corpses are beds of love
for cripples and whores, funnels for the fumes of the spiked stars.

As we dig the bones of pangolins out from beneath the scored rock,
so men will unearth the metal bones of out cities.
Girls wearing nameless flowers, palmtrees growing bread, green rue,
rising cities with sky-blue squares where fire-lions cavort,

and the edgy shadows, shaky phantoms,
get up from under the earth, squares, grass.