skyway raze every day there's a new scattering of sunlight. a fresh layer of something thick enough to wrap its arms around the city but too diffuse to brush up against our cheeks. there are no dividing lines to cheapen the vault that crests above our homes. only whatever water-soluble dyes the day sees fit to stain itself with, and the pitted scars age and malnutrition have etched into this strange seabed. the ripples in the road melt the miles that separate our thawing bodies into minutes that have barely even been born, and a spark catches on the tinder. smoke. 220224 what's it to you? who go blather from