This is a hit and run.
A we-dream of fever and fruit.
The mirrored mirror never quite comes to a point.
A broken web sloughs shards and feathers.
Coughing, hiccoughing meat.
One monkey chews at its gag.
A prismatic baptism fountains at the long end of a vein.
The houses flex on both sides of the street.
Empty windows turn toward the son.
I can still hear the sound racing around the corners, to and away.
I have one ear to the ground seeking thunder.
The other listens for the dog-whistle dopplering of the most distant rain.
One monkey cocks a hand to hear.
A weed pries apart the pavement near the tilt of your broken bowl.
This is a bright line between two things I barely know.
One monkey peeks between a vee of fingers.
There’s too much happening in this busy triptych.
There are too many flashing lights at the ends of too many strings.
Even the dust is lit with glass.
No one could know where to start.