street

This street hums with the lives of others.
The chattering of fluorescent teeth reveal the black tracing lines.
A shape, a form, a life lived, a life to live. 
Maybe a dog or a discarded pasta noodle there, obscene before propriety, sweating.
A silver shape, a silver man with silver scales.
He performs an autopsy on the body politic.
There, in the street, among the chattering of fluorescent teeth, the silvery augur reads for signs.
The body politic is a body without organs.
The body politic is a body of signs.

His teeth

His teeth were tombstones echoing the lament of ghosts.
These words are not your own.
They are human time's ghastly remains.