A crowd dances with television hands Poem by Lies Van Gasse

A crowd dances with television hands.
One is invisible as she writes in the margin:

an unravelling line, like a reel of silver thread
over our white, interchangeable faces
and how they light up colourfully in the dark.

Twelve hours later a man lies at the station,
his head glinting like an egg in the sun, and then
something with an elbow, snapped, twitching eyes
and a flow from mouth and nose,

a rotating light,
yellow men with blue gloves and we,
who uncomprehendingly cycle off and away.