Waterlogging Generations

I'd wonder how far in the ground I'd settle before the ground would say,
"There are no coffins for the living."

The escalator greets hop-less noses to mall tile.
Booths of fiction sequels offer their leagues of hands.
All hands to the despondent walker of Dali inter-position
given arrisal by a Chevy down a neural path
on the wall of reptilian depository

where color diverges along ravenousness lines
of white naught.
Reference-less eyes can blink this way.

A booth's teller rangles in him or her or it, in possible matter
concerning that there the purple curtains shatter in infinitesimal vision,
and the ego retracts into its circuit
and the circuit into a dendrite nub
of fourth elementary,
on the end, still on the cusp.
And there remain

huddled by blue light
of a hermit of the urban corner.