The footfall flux meanders.
A plane; a swallow.
The Trow’s resuscitated – see the blackwhite gable draped along in hanging baskets.
The searsome sun seethes heathaze.
A crossmaker – Yesh’wa constructed th’means by which the legion stamped impeer’yul boots on his own people.
Where once I was I am no more – no longer does that me exist.
Lapped at by the coursing mirrored-sky.
Their lines stretch finite.
The rails run.
The final days of Nefertiti’s childhood.
Pigeon plays his puff-chest charm.
I write; I drink; I’m passed through.