there are men in the sky but I only see containers. claws when I want to float.
five chiseled minutes of sun on the neck of this battle.

they are underground but seized on less. daily chants, silent mutterings, unwashed six o’clock news appearances. they say “hey, I know”. or they say “hey, I know and I keep knowing, and when I’ve had enough I know some more while they close the lid the way some downtowns close on weekends and I get to know some more then that I didn’t know”.

there are people in bed doing the good work, the post park horizontal walks. they pull rabbits out of hats, (what’s up doc), they step into magic cabinets where they both disappear into the sound behind the sound that comes from the tree in the city square when the christmas lights first go up, when scarves clean reading glasses, eyes that need adjusting at birth but months go by, a mesh of fuzzy and coastal clear, days that want to join something before they come apart.

there are days so down that they never leave a chair. a crowd so obvious on top of us that we never notice.