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.