These teeth which chatter on [2000]

These teeth which chatter on
about this man
and these legs
which step back and forth
in shoes
worn only for a week or so
grate like crow's cries
against my veins.
Your basket.
Your carpet.
Your lives,
your machines.
And I breathe
with this dull ache
in one side.
Sharp twinge
on the other.
The pleasant haze of Saturday afternoon,
where out the lush
greenery of man-made jungles
stands forth crumbling
oblongs of cement and stone,
holds back the sun.
It is always dim in here.
Rid of dust and bodily fluids,
dried and encrusted,
old bits of us which,
with water and lye,
become part of that
great dissolved human
which creeps
the pipes of cities
of the planet,
clothing and machines
dance together.
Spin, spin, spin
and tremble
against each other.
And when we slowly stop
together,
we come apart,
and dry our sweat away
to dance again.