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My window sails by

a collection of malnourished stones

holding their position, steadfast,

in the waves of whispering grass.

Decrepit brick piles–

the microwave leftovers of my state–

fly by in an illusory haze of enchantment.

Each rivulet’s canyon

marked by carelessness and ignorance,

each fading stroke of an aerosol signature

captures me and

Where did it all come from?

When did the intrigue dissipate

and when did the caresses of human life

cease to brush upon these walls?

I let the lonely thought ricochet

in my mind for a while

until, like cut glass in the tumbling currents,

its sharp perimeter becomes soft and palatable.

When I am thirsty, I fumble

for the thought in my pocket,

and suck on its tasteless neutrality

in the crease of my churning tongue.