low-flying planes on contract to insure the safety of the impervious
wall of arms. childhood games, such as red rover, red rover, haunt the
populace. it seems we are supposed to thank them for this, despite

lingering scars. thank who? all those truly concerned with safety
aren’t. and who are we to thank them? security guards cajole and we
line up to receive more reconciliation. washing away from this

wishful lingering in front of the plate glass, reflecting the glow
and the furious endeavor. what more steep decline, what more
of a yellowy street burnished just this side of recognizable

could represent all of them. “all of them” stand up to take a
twirl around the city-sponsored ice rink. adornments abound—the
bow, for starters. next to witness: a fuzzier set of event horizons

tilting off to one side, sliding, in fact, completely out of
time, ultimately getting kicked off the team. we meekly tried to enlarge the
frame. we ducked. we were cowardly. we preached but didn’t practice.

all for a nickel-store sack of unrefined weather. whoever had to carry
that cross was surprised to find it had no edges. corroded spherically,
it was burdened with containment of colossal magnitude or nanoscale

radio waves passing through at millisecond pace, keeping time
with the latest hip-hop emanating gently from hong kong, sound decaying
by half-lives, defying containment or imprinting on it. dust mites were us