Bird of winter, assassin on furlough, you complicate the palace terrace with an equation of smog and loiter. No one is likeable and so goes this twenty-first century. The world is a pink hospital. The world behaves like a tourist in a factory and it is not coming to an end. It will be a matter of sun and music strained through the noise of traffic braking. Tragedy is patient, elementally so. Grandeur: if it's accident it's cooked, if it's enterprise it's cooked. I draw a squiggly line among the feathered possibilities. If it's fucked it breeds, and if it breeds it bleeds your bread and water until the barrow comes back and forth with less than what's necessary: viscera, a written warning, an unannounced visitation too fierce to be scary. You've lost weight. Turns out that every jugular hangs by a lawyer's alarm. And now the conditions for select cities in Ohio and Indiana: joyful, reluctant, full, partly primitive. My unknown lifetime as a weather observer dissolves in a two-second sigh—a minor disturbance over the soapsuds. When you went upside down you were pleased to see the ceiling connect to the wall. The whole room sat straight up.