Running on flat tyres,
late
a metaphor on

four wheels.
a slow puncture a slow hour a slow century
moving,)

The steamed up glass
And the buildings that we pass,
Are stationary,

Like brick mausoleums,
catacombs where
We live

in smokestacks where,
death mask images appear on
dry rot wallpaper

Asbestos interiors
the roof of your life
Leaks

Drip by drip,
a steady constant
drips

And we raise our skinny arms to the
sky like
antennas.

Waiting to be taken away.

( I want to be on her wavelength. )

But we are dis tuned, a
Crackling white noise
A backdrop of static

Stuck in a terminal
Watching
planes angle themselves to the sky

Above the soil, below the clouds,
somewhere in between
they fly along invisible lines

Plotted on machines in Bismark, Dakota

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