The fog has an edge today, gashing buildings in two, beheading the tree line, dispersing the relays. The sun dies in the east, throttled by an accumulating grayness that chews. Watch the rain approach on its blacked skate, drowning the ironbound fence-work that skirts the blustered apartments. This neighborhood is lost to me - it chokes and retches under a slip of sick. The moon is just a drain plug. Wherever I go next, I will paper with you, your ink-sugar eye, the unconscious throne of hair that throws me over.