Ferocious beasts run the streets merciless and mechanized in an uncaring world, seeking new phones, perhaps fancy boxes. Under the yew’s black branches I lie in wait of fate’s gift psychosis or tumors pursue what modernity lifts. You longed for the beating heart of a man instead of this copper junk You wished subservience and passion and gained the lowest result no matter You see? As the neon night wanes I bathe in the silence of dawn. In hand dug, humid black wells my heart is ripped and drowned in other mistakes, glass jagged, the dream dreaming again. Like any man, alone being made alone keeps being himself.