I love each tinfoil pan, each person.
The arch of St. Louis holds a faint cobweb, today.
Scattershot the movement of humans as the universe breaks.
Warm asphalt hurls the winter out of the sky.
The web is water I sleep under a christmas tree
in the bus station lobby until the sweepers bring me
back to the world with my whole spine singing
and swinging like an elephant's trunk.