The blue afternoon in stereo is more expansive in the chorus, and the
wing I imagine, a shadow the passageway catches, voiced from trees, the
gathering. On a map of corners crisscrossed with falling there's a
trace, my doubts about gravity. The light was stolen from pages of
prediction, our hopeful meteorology, when you say the sails will dry.
And you are right as west wind peels the hour, the rows, the veil that
appeases.

Dust is busy at ground level.

I'm thirsty now as a motorcycle two-times the gutter among spillage.
All I can do is stand up once more. There's no exit and the static is
lively. This afternoon, however, concerns nothing but the curve of the
hill.