from Walking Out
There the hatch I push the spectrum from. Here the firm scoot of black into wind into white into street. There the steps that keep my stretch. Here the source of urban collage, oriented by the advancing vernacular of bone, what scaffolded the skin-sky: I want something like this? Or in youth I didn’t see explore; look as we don’t speak—try it in your drink. I am running under there slightly over here. They are now lining up to treat their view as if from roof and with the sun going down. Whole homes lay low in the grid, the plated obscurity of a voice shattering as the door breaks slowly open, glittering into sharp skits atop the cobbled critique of the path we’ll never walk, crossing legs there, moving them here.