morning is seditious; the alphabet’s a void is nothing without the accomplice of my window where the air breaks into seasons, hour after hour the city grows younger. a portrait of strangers swooning over whiskey, revolutionizing poetry, invent music, transport themselves to a time that didn’t yet exist. themselves, invent the lore of cassette tapes, dimestore jeans & the secret lives of headlights. (you know the kind, self-enlightened, without myth or desire.) but fools need love, too & the vertigo of neckties angry barbed wire shoelaces petrified, now ground to dust there’s no real movement, after all, no procession from meaning to meaning–that’s where our feet got it wrong—we’re the prisoners of mood men & manic giants. but most of all, of someone else’s laughter. have we crossed the threshold yet & where exactly do we belong? (smoke drifts through abandoned windows) a lonely mass of invertebrate stars, an eye half-blinking, not awake, not yet falling: hardly ever reflecting the moon & the company it keeps.