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.