the night cannot hold,
it never can

tracing the cracks
we have held on tight

the sun is a truck
squeezing down an alley,

the world the road and
i the gas

five million
excuses drilling

one thing that
has not changed

is that I am in no rush

the exhausted breeze
tumbles end over end,
breaking over treetops
and cascading down
from the taller buildings
on greene street.

the wavy edge of a world cut in two
appears, from the ground,
as a choking, as
a call for silence