she’s throwing a javelin that splits bumper cars of cloud

to flatline: broken arrowhead at the delta of a faded

scoreboard, beat by one apparent arc of sprinkler.

let’s create mind’s-eye footage of this, you & i,

so as to dent all future stillness. the pap of starter’s

guns & bare earth circling peppercorns fractally &

a concertina of parked cars & the ‘what’s

going on’ yelled by someone on the breeze.

i’ve seen a magic in the way others describe doors

today, forgotten about it, & zinced interest

all over this ritual. this now, sure & central

as your belly button; experience a

pliable sausage sandwich. solitude

came a long way to find us.