My answer to your question

and beer, and clean sheets,- Will our arms 

be crossed, or by our sides when 

we die?''

When this dawn's eerie boredom drives 

Victorian Machinery to a halt, hissing steam 

that turns us blind and distraught

It never dies

Screams of born spite, die, but green fear 

to do right,- Breathe, heave for breath! 

And rest your worn sign in a palm

You're alive

The view will land somewhere between us 

and the air outside, the glass that keeps 

the pink dress fixed only 

in your smile