at 5 am, a throng of sunken eye sockets—the ones
tweaked, through a square window pane, emerge
—who will save fanon’s wretched says a single man

five stories up in a small studio, the outside brutal
lamplight beaconing thirst for narcotic, for escape
the outlined spectacle muted below. for clarification,

no noise, a dead silent shuffle, no change ever. time
changes the narrative always. at dawn ten years later
a blind single man will speak lovingly of sight, recalling

as time permits gray haze over the city, lost humans
left erased, out of which sparked new narratives
& chaos birthing prisons. but in the glass pane

five stories up in a small studio, a single man awaits
glaucoma’s night blanket, & a witness to ruin
ten years later, voiceless voice on the corner, he will be—