The Turnstile

The eye
opes
the blank door
of tomorrow, yesterday
12:47 daze
to let the dead pass.

A boy in a mackintosh
looks through the revolvers
of time as
suits disappear:
a young girl triggers sounds, pains
of early childhood.

Voices: a staccato
of gunfire, burn
texture of ears, drummin
continual bleeding, breeding
smokes of broken strings.

Nothing can block this:

a quarter dances in the air.