Something withers in the gut; a light goes out. Air dribbles down, down, settling in the soles of my feet. I'm alone under the wing negative.
The seething mottle of clouds brushes past, old bruisers. I am trapped down here, in the memory cycle that lurks inside all the glassware.
Everything that came before seems like it happened to someone else. There is no after; slices of globe are dappled by thoughts that get lost in the salt-surf marrow. Rain claims an errant soul with bolt-iron drops.
I dabble with shadows, eating them like hors d'oeuvres, but nothing's enough for the broad yawn pit. A green altar sways in the vowelish breeze, a light blinks on, but suffers back blank. Imperfect things, loving imperfectly, sweep down the road, thin as eyelashes.