i once begged visions of orange
to loft their skin by their lashes,
eager to mold reason through glances.
but it all became mute in retroflextives.
i figured the city put stars
on a shelf with it’s swollen hands
so mad generations would pound
the streets with thick glass blinks.
and they did.
even i did.
even i once drew dashes on my feet
for balance. deranged, i’ve cut
triangles from sheeted direction.
i only knew one way up the wall
where there was only one pin
stuck like a white flag
and labeled destination.