Xanthia

Men, the colour of death, ask if we can cope, or if they can help, assist our search for wealth, throw away the rope. unmeasure lengths of distance, what dreams have we kept, they ask, the dopes, sat at the bar like berefts, do they think of us as lepers, like Diane Arbus in New York, laugh at us caress, our tickets from the Pen, the bleeding worm of hope, deep within our breasts, they ask about our breath, how long before we show, in trains on stations left, their look of gravestones.