Sunday, grey as
the after-ash
of joy's taste.
The nervous systems
of January trees
look in shock,
light rooted to a
lightless kingdom.
Their surveyor sits
at the rear of a bus,
vibrated by a monstrous
engine, dumb with dual
force.
Bracing for all kinds of
impact, psychic projections
hung all over this city.
No eyes for what is, these
burnt slits...routinely barred
from the last entrance to
space.
A reified prayer sine qua non.