the water is water and yet just above the lapping little ripples icicles hang from the cinderblocks' edges
a thin layer of water on the bottommost with miandering platforms with ladders expanded into a serene and dark magenta to emptiness
how quaint or trite to write of fireworks, the muted and distant kind that spray, mist like, tiny dandelion fog behind distance and branch and brick - yet if they each were, just as forlorn blossoms birthed in fatal contaminants pooling on the service roads between our souls, an undoing of collected ugliness - futility begets a garden's bridge that i would now extend in earnest. please, i would.
pitch shift
upwards grass, water steps
Climbing several flights, looking for my own outward impression moving about among the portraits of a some pivotal stratum of your becoming, probably couldn't find it, how thoroughly to this distraction of selfhood we've amounted and I know a phrase to retire
between us all perhaps a sheer cliff, a woven fabric the distance between my eyes, what yours must see a vastness I took for granted every time I attempted language feeble and dispassionate, as an accent I received in return in exchange for something evidently unscalable, unscalable