Fat Tuesday

Antiques staring out the dark windows, stand    
and reflect the  sex-toys, strip-joints, she-hunks,
strung-out street players, needle-armed blues band,
half-shell shuffling hustlers stalking the  drunks
stumbling  in vomit, piss,  ashes and leaves. 
Electric streetcar-shavings fly and dance 
on  the  rise of  iron-torn balconies
and  rest on decaying brick laced with glass,
at once observing the stinging of life
as people boil through the streets below 
with beads and  bottles, eye-crazed, eye-fallow.
Horsemen  slowly sweep them into the night

and they all slip under the blue-blackened,
star-scattered ledges and eves of heaven.

Sam Wilson's Questions:

Does the last couplet carry enough resonance and weight to sustain the rest of the poem, or does it fall short?