archelyxs

the broken patterns of our patchwork cities:                   mud licks roads into gravely gravy; unused water rotting in a glass,                               half-empty building facing a parking field. a woman looks through a stain on the window. nothing fazes her;               the dilation of attention in the presence of the crater of pain. nothing breaks the spell or    jams the stuttering hippocampus spitting up a frothy sameness of hurts; head tilted sadly      like the wind beagle's. the places it's rolled in:      unkempt clumps of greens,         garages arising as a consequence of the natural order. the DIY nature of