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The sky is not falling it’s
as the rainband doxes trees in a wiretap wind :
seismic 7, the plastisphere
swelling, 413 AR.
Here’s what little I know
about it : coldblack city
streets in an outage, kinky
blowdown a tape on a loop, the scuffed
muscle and worn
bone of a rotator cuff like a door come off
to break my face against. Or the government’s.
The sky is flailing—a hoax, a
helix, its daylight
an algorithm of
textured demos and Perlin noise
on a dome—and every time the sunshine dims
the system is
The afternoon twitching in Afib with
fog at the far end of town, purling
like a tectonic crack
shellacked in iPhone glass, my data
shadow flickers along the paywall and
out : a whisper
through the darknet. A pearl.
Fox field at evenfall.