Upon their lips a limply child-like surrender

Curves out to the light, as though they felt

The presence of an unassuming strangeness.

The morning hides from their eyes:

They walk on, in great strides,

Like blind men swinging over a well-known scene.

Their faces twitch with echoes of iron fists:

Their faces hold a swarthy stupor

Loosened by little fingers of morning light

Until it droops into reluctant life.