You pull down the blinds in the arc of the sun,
And nothing happens
And everything does.
And it's highway robbery
With the stinking trucks
Grinding up the street.
While the fan blades whir
A half mile an hour
And Madagascar
Sinks to the sea.
And it's all
Broken bottles and fences,
Garbage can lined alleyways.
Its circular sensors
And half-moons
And Christmas
And Thursday before payday.
And the moon pores silver.
And I dream like
A Persian cat.