So it sparkles and confetti, pointed-out headgear, behind tinted windshield,
rails freshly spiked,
whilst in furthest corner
left twig nuzzles hairs around the hoof.
Or on high heels,
about to charge, tamping the already dreadfully trammeled into flat pain,
like a forklift, like every very-hard. And we haven’t even gotten to the top of the diagonal
thickets rise to the top of upper windows, crusting off at the higher ridge of the spine, grabbing as a hound its rag toy,
and the spider eye doing her best to shade from view
this dent. O,
the expiring cities grab for attention last.