Asleep beneath a sodium tongue,
Damp synthetic fire-licked stone,
Fake stone,
Hand made stone,
Carpeting ugly and commodious city streets,

Voices of young men,
Smoke filled lungs and wide wild eyes,
Sanguine chatter-boxes,
Impatiently idea making,

Dreaming, cold-air-breathing, nights on end without closed eyes,
Hearts open,
Some happy numbness in the fingers and toes,
All may rest hard for some moments on the fake fire-licked stone,

Until suddenly they are too old,
And retire to rest on furniture and push paper,
Folding prose,
While at the window rain is talking on the surface,
Of some unfeigned and limpid fire-licked stone,

Splitting the tongues that noisy orange glow,
Separate now from the old young men,
No longer prepared to breath in the cold,
They may just read and go to sleep.