all roads lead to a throttling, cherubic stoplight, tugging at overwrought powerlines even Pinocchio thinks no more than leader some fly-fisher clips with but dollar store nailclippers
what’s meant by breastbone spluttering comely as
what scuffed moodstone’s truant indifference
as the dervishing, search-
light rain scrapes over the
concrete, groping for
cracks and outlets,
some small god among
burn-outs sobs and the
street lamps dawdle and
throb, here affording some
purchase for pursed and
pulsing stars snubbed, sparks
shucked out from the rain-
clopped rock, the cold-
cocked concrete, solid
or stolid as sin, be-
ginning to tear
just a little bit