the warm winds of crisis

have never been so stiff

or urgent. in a sense

it has all already decayed —

the droplets of glass

on the bitumen

crying their lurid song,

dual parts warning

and anticipation.

we are all wound tight

around glass, the memory

of sand rubbing us down

to nubs. each breath

is mosquito bite and tattered

shoe, each meal

is coarse and does not abide.

each day is hurled against the wall

like slop—i see it drip down

in unreal time,

lolloping into open mouths.

jawbones click together

like heels. the past

is kept in an airtight vault

and the safe alone

is symbol—the shapes

behind the background

gestured to only in our dreams.