The ticket man locks up, talks of ancestors pale from dreaming. In this corner, sleep is ugly, the moon vigilant. Here, hatred taps along sidewalks. He dreams of wild buses and the one percent he cannot see. You look down corridors, where building edges whirr at the night, to find an aged Indian gnawing glass.
Businessmen rub the medicine stones, and wear crisp smiles tha wrinkle in daylight.
Muffled, the heartbeat continues, abonadoned stars haunt the reservations. Clear as tracks, are callings and cold signals on the wind. Women know how to wait here. They smell dust on wind and know you haven't come. I've grown lean walking along dirt roads, under a glassy sun, whispering to steps.