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Deadwood. Low noon. Pigment evacuates the suburbs and cheeks
of a tired form worn on a board sign
posed by a bar. Empty. Amid bare
walls of the tedious, pinned by the four-square
metaphysic-cramp, Spectare be-
weeps abandoned a lot
soul alone
in the unfilled presence of silicon. Glass. Clear.
To the god straight through.
I alone am clouded.
And
as the sun empties over there (its living streams) and the dream
fever of a film (cut)
merges in the obscurity of his mind
direction shifts
off a trance paralyzed dance
severed on a tumbler's edge
to a face familiar his fades
on a still sign aloft
Action Cut Cu Act Tut