situated on a dark, vast infrastructure, imported from the east and spent down, there is the preservation of a ragged, ritualistic lap of existence which takes pause without postural claims. it ebbs and flows with the wind and winds up to be wrecked upon the waves crashing beneath.
whenever there is lightning, there is fire amid the trees, punctuating the landscape with smoke, billowing through the sky like cattle and finally resting on the wind. there is a translucent glaze on the windows. there is fallen ash and soot. there is a mending of the rooftop. and wherever paint, there is a peeling off from siding never laid.
try to be plain eyes on the face of it all from the 82nd floor. there is a wish to be willed forth and a closet of bespectacled dreams, taking the form of the ancients. there is a soldering of two joints on the hinge. there is a broken in door.
there is a shouldering of a gun. there is the plight of the poor. there is water flowing south. there is a stream of consciousness. there is a common misconception. there is a watering can. there is a storm on the horizon. there is a question to be asked. there is a formerly featured frowning upon a feather dress. there is the sun.
there is, there is a cry to just be drowning in laughter and stop short with your breath.
and breathe.