Her heart beats with the sunset inside the
silken eye of a digital camera; a pulsing so
deep the crosswalks shatter into scattered
debris of upper Manhattenahenge where
upon turning we have all succumbed to stone, and
sundered our bodies to the dust of the sun, and
the retracted technicolor brilliance of the billboards
are all that's left of us when the lens cracks.

All that's left of us when the light leaves.

Her hair is long down her back, and her bangles
burn rust against the crust of her wrists, the twigs of
her fingertips, the salt of her wounds, and the snake pits
of her rotted eyes.

Manhattenhenge, where perchance we hence tonight;
mild mannered equestrians on the long road east from
west, toward the sun, we go, to the statues of our former
replicas, to watch them burn by the spray of the final sputters
of modernism.

We do not live
but exist merely in pictures.