Under that enormous roof of broken glass and diving swallows, of weeds and rusty chains and the blue blue sky...where every ruined pane asserts its own version of the same story
there at the end of that sentence that trails off into the skin of the aging switches in the corroded boxes in the corners of this silent ghost
under the figs - covered in thistles and ticks where the floors are now weeds and the sun steels in through the tattered remains of that ruined dress
running the risk of being lost forever...smothered in this clenched and fleshy fist
there...frozen, wondering how to proceed in this catastrophic wreck...wondering if these shoes will work and if anyone will tempt this knotted hand with a feather duster
