We step out. Out of bounds and into the streets. Our glasses clink (clear vials of prized poisons) in the tumult and the sweet perfume. And who wouldn't want this world? Secrets behind shimmering slips of hair beside baritone laughter. Perhaps there are too many of us, or perhaps there are just enough.
We move, all water, all skins, bottles and limbs, lips and eyes, all noise. Bright lights, bright future, what we move towards. The silent seconds skim through us, uninhibited by our rollicking joys. We are spry, and this is our soul, our ego, caprice.
the after-shadows fall on this gypsum city. with the umbra we sit, legs of sands, eyes of suns. this is the evening, raven air, pot of dust, what we built is hidden. we are architects denied our dark materials. and we are two feathers on one wing
