When these evening faces float and fold and their orbit is in reach of the foam coughed on the beach, the cyclical physics in the diodes implode, each edifice saunters into sleep behind them.
Tomorrow the city erupts, full enough for gutters to bleed, abrupt strikes seen among the chain links and trash heaps. Tonight, they're witness to a cruel mother's steel belly rocking in crude oil labor, and her youthful light who
leaps to spy how its birthpains coax a body into another -- to share what do the sea and sky. When
Gravity herself weaves a celestial web above, and a fledgling ******* bed below, it tucks them softly, safely, neatly into their human details
so deeply a cry is heard. It is the ocean trapped in itself alone, so envious in the brackish tomb.