We are the real:
behind this chain-linked fence
whose clasping fingers
bar our way and sharpened razor wire
cuts the observant sky ethereal.
These yellow, tarnished walls
still glimmer, wet with our finger prints:
we face the facts with faces,
swallowing the truth like nails
condemning us to hang three days late
from steel-barred crosses.
We linger in the hang-ups
on the answering machine,
taking back tomorrow with today,
we know our legs can walk that final mile
and with the magic coursing up our spine
we give ourselves to science
for that final fireworks display.
