I remember the East Coast, though I’ve never been. Did you feel what I meant by that?
There is something in the air that brings a stone to a feather
and somehow the whole world is more than an absolute failure.
more like a Roman nose on a resolute Bagpipe.
so many terminals sifting through haggard tributaries, anointing the fumes
of our empirical dialysis with all sweet fear of mortal life.
conjoining the wheel with the purpose.
so a stone knows it’s weight… but an hour lacks
a thought to contend with the moral of the story.
All the world like a constant balloon
made all of our things
at a glance.