The pavement scars my drunken face in gravel and
her cursing bitumen eyes the houses of her face
more derelict than distraught in their abandon
to an unrelenting season of heat cooled
only slightly by the calming storm
wetted and bedraggled by the rain runnelled gutters
and the debris it casts a dirty city’s jetsam about
my damning atolll whose birds are all dead
of some falling sickness as heavy as gravity and as inexorable.
Such is my defiance that I rise only a little above this earth,
an escape velocity to the first power of c, required,
is beyond me.
The wings of her simple joys, the cathedral of her face,
flies me so high above the accusing fingers of her spires.
Soft with the cumulus, a mist in nimbus,
From here the pavement reviling the footprints
of its billion erosions
is static as a map.