Exhausted Angel

David Bircumshaw

Unknown Unmade Untitled

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.

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