Ideas of falling unfold methodically.
In the city, a system enacts itself, cleverly without language.
Crows gash the aggressive air, unrelenting fabric.
High flat sun. Their shadows create Venn diagrams of something
best left unspoken. When they falter, the world breaks in.
I keep my cursive longingly to my heart; my caesuras barren. We
distract ourselves, and play coy with slicing poor fingers as
markers of progress, insight.
Crows beat against the hordes of clouds. This elemental rejection
enlivens them, quickens their elegance.
Soon a copse of elms peels itself upward. Wearily you might sit,
desiccated rubble sharp beneath your heels. Narrow leaves
present an index of the city.
Searing sweet irruption, our city lights itself at night—neon sign tumescent.
Pulsing with. They twist their reflections, their images in televisions.
