The wings of death are everywhere

the thrum of captured time

in forced reversal

every car looks sinister.

They piss against each other's wind,

trying to reach the hook in the sky.

The blinking graph is inevitable.

Men like moss will live

under its umbrella.

Sidewalks slither past

cloaked hyacinth beds,

their heaping fragrances.

The same river, the same dream.

Disintegrating into nothingness

in a dance of blades together.

I patrol in a rolling desk chair

the hordes like an antique choir

trading wire for wire

cat's tread printing a clay driveway

cloud fortresses of fictions that are gone.