And there consumes from within the
honking clown of a roller coaster tempest, a great and… irked
gnawing on the toothy deckboards: the lashing, lustful winds
gnaw across the soils askew, tilled with
their own latent time and again and
spread before the
upturned, gold-curtained bus, speared by those with
another, and one more. And so, the
sidewalk never opens up if you
stare at it
long enough, I discovered. In that
way, it’s the same as the
utterly unreachable stained
glass windows in that
church that’s now, not.
Thus it was perhaps always written, in its
very walls. I think I could
hear it, the next time, a
silence growing like a weed I was told to
hate by a series of voices I was told to hear by…I’ve never
broken a bone. But I find
not, and no, peering about the
scraped promenade.
And I find nothing, and no
one, scraping away, a butter knife across the
parking lot.