I wrote one stand
one stood
one under the hand
of a city
coiling like an ammonite
in the pixelated evening
while my eyes were closed
and the god with a wide gob
yelled into the stars
dragging their giant feet
over the membrane
of our dreams.
You heard a song you knew
once, soles skipping
over hot sand,
all these empty isles
in demand,
all these sparks in the
gutter oil slick
signs for shops
reading “Get rich quick!”
I held on to the ripping seam
as the streets scattered
eyes rolled back
and the present shattered
and the present shattered
and the present shattered
and I almost can stand
under its pieces,
almost,
a pen, a book, my hand.