a muted voice streams forth golden and unintelligible
from somewhere out of sight,
proclaiming the day
bright and listless and stirred by tired winds,
the sore muttering of birds
circling jet black
against a pearly sky.

my shadow cast before me,
painted in bold strokes against sun-washed wood,
a pantomime that mirrors every movement;
every zephyr kisses my lank tresses.
the slope of pavement carries voices
on the flat dimension -
black wings lacerate the azure vault.

a broken animal cries
as the sun - some sort of genius -
suddenly appears to say its waning goodbyes
(the course of a day
a sick auburn charade in which all happens,
the protagonists do their thing)
the peeling walls moan a little, settling into themselves
like molting birds in drab overcoats,
the rare rustling of a vibrant wing.