Dragging the corpse, across a pavement, In a desert of faceless faces. A pavement filled with shards, of broken glass. In the hope of feeling, something, anything; from the flesh remaining, the bones’ scraping. Dragging the corpse to see, If it’s dead or pretending to, Doze in the hope of becoming a corpse. Or, in the hope it springs to life From the shards, asphalt, And, the bloodied sand on the skin.