And then, in front of Puvogel's Florists,
two lose their handgrips, miss the eaves,
fall hard to the pavement; assistants
pull them close to the curb to wait
for ambulances, moaning through sacrificial beards,
bleeding their consciousness away
as the others continue to swing down the sheet,
eave to eave, house to house, building to building,
in the cold, dark night just before dawn...