We are the thrones
Sitting squat in the gutter
Our bodies are charcoal
Our fingers are bone.

We are the colors
Washed out from the river
Through cobblestone curtains
The ravens have flown.

We are the maps
Of a civilized city
With sleek silver Saturns;
A chrome-cluttered rave.

We are the glances
Thrown sharp over shoulders
To plot shallow stumps
Of our moss-swallowed grave.