the first crack cradling the final one, four hands fumble for the ailing pulse, as the coffee convoy leaves town. the occasional dropped bean crushed under ten tonne wheels.
lines once upon a time people, were people, and machines were machines. now, looking out across a tempest of cabling, there are so many vessels – empty and drifting,
flowers fell there can’t be many chances left. like wildflowers in a meadow choked by roads tangling and constricting old memories grown calloused and unyielding.
Saturday night/Sunday morning dropped neon dragged behind traffic, as scratched letters bounce over the surface clinging now and then to lampposts trembling in the wind,