On the second floor of a center city
building looking out of glass and into
the past. The heat forges defined lines and
carves shadows into cement. Our sun as
the primal sculptor, shaping life and death.
One of many stars which are the source,
the penultimate creators of all.
And you are also made up of everything,
but only aware of it in passing,
so the split second when you commune with
the universe makes all the difference.
This sound of heat is a still wind tunnel.
As humans trudge through bludgeoned streets, melting
as they’re walking, you just stand and take it
all in. Passing time and chance up with no
qualms. Searching for language in order to
make light of external intangibles.
Granting memory and reflection rest.