there are comeheres from the oranged, lit street,
from the hilled and hump-browed wood above.
silvering dam, concrete lines swiveling out;
by these mills the hulled dusk shredding, stamped with porticos, and slabs, and stories of light.
but paper-winged, boxed as origami:
these sights shrugged like water:
where is that generator you used to have, the heavy-bottomed
the electric rune that hums hums
implicates. progressive and static.
films the eye to see
this one word
not this fucking word,
not this dusk. it doesn’t fill your volume this dusk