Drops of rain between buildings where things
rub against each other: violins
and fleshy objects with broken eyes. The open
currents of angels flickering dim then off,
curling inward as a remote source of light.
It’s pleasant to think of the distant dawns that chase
sunsets over hills, to want to feel
the lift and fall, the assembly of infant eyes.
Yet, white machines have forged and swallowed
scrapes then clicks. The sensation of any one
life to explain them all explains no one.
Formed, a congress of naked creatures crawl
until alone; old books on a dusty wall.
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