I feel like they’re running us out of town. We walk down
the street. I wear a belt around each thigh. We turn left at
the dead end sign. They are bent smoke. They are running
us out of town. All downhill town. Does that mean
sweet skull sounds? My clothes are too big. Things are
different now. Dead end. They are there. We are at the
tower again. I want to scale some brick mountain like it’s
something good. Dead trees, a string of commiserating
branches on the ground. I remember an easy way down.
Wrong, fallen animal. Sweet skull blues. What looks to
be a winged drop is bruised oblivion-limbs. There’s time
to look above me for vibrations, thick as my legs. Enough
time to brace myself for the impossible exit, the hot push
of some other sky.