No part of the sky can abide its size or isolation. There is a difference between disorientation and confusion. One is temporary while the other keeps changing its clothes. The meadow’s pocket, filled with anagrams and pebbles, hangs off the edge of the poet’s lip. The land is bitter or the old city is in blue segments. Freeways have anticipated cracks like wrinkles, and cars like tree breeze to the lantern’s rill. Brittle silhouettes know one another but cannot commit to pleasure. The crib of bridges shakes with connection. Potentially, everything conjoined to everything else, as soon as we can stop crying for milk. Every second has to wait for certain silences and statues. This is how to cut through time. Looking down takes a year of sorrow. There are two ways to read it: either, the function of civilization is in houses, or, everything is made of gold that we forget how to see. Neither impression allows for wild flowers. An antique radio. Archeology unearths music. I haven’t been able to say it without laughing. The significance of everything is a poem on stilts. No one takes notes at the circus but the clowns. The mountain in the distance listens to the city’s breathing.