Gentle plutonium flows through
a cloud soaked sky.
The next breath is
somewhere
in the air all around me.
I cannot catch it
I inhale the scent of a city
to exhale the circular lengths
of lost civilizations held together
by faceless, mindless tycoons
and machine-gun fire.

Like the phosphorous spark
of distant fireflies,
words stirring like chemicals
to flash in unison.
So what is this now?
A cerulean tempo limited alone
by the accidental pausing
of an instant?
Stutter of the clock.
or these hidden iron
beats hammering rhythms
into my soiled heart.
Touch of an infinity
blood flow
with a pinch of glassy
thoughts that dwell on stilts over
a sea of miniature gods and
hourglasses and TV sets and
suicide beds.

Streetlights in the
windows talk
but do not offer a final
answer.