Daylight, and I am the only stranger here. The gray slate gradates, full of birds and blues. Cement grays and asphalt grays, blues full of shadows and exhaust steam. The moon floats along some strident lines, swaying on transient hinges. Headache and the blur of distant voices. The radio crackle of these bookended days.
Cold sweats and looks of bewilderment. The shuffled deck of the book of ghosts. The sharp end of every sight, the rough side of every sound. Everything so out of place that there is no way of noticing that anything has moved. This is the world remade every day. This is the world, floating on a melting dream.
I drift on, a vague agent of the irrelevant. The lay of the land, so distant from the sky, so far from the offset ocean. The waking measures of waterbird and headlight, the broken rhythm of heavy feet. Nothing remains save these faint notations. The pull of a shadow, the heft of a light.
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