Fitting exactly between the collected tall buildings
Workers, mothers, preachers of god’s word
All run for their lives
Soon after the white cumulus turn blue, then black
Snowfall is reported but
Snowfall is reported but
This city
My city destroys any purity long before it can
reach us
Its concrete surface remains clean
As we fade into evening and disturbed sleep
The streets clear except for a broken toy
Springs and cogs poking from the innards
As we slowly turn from the sun yet again
Surplus fumes and winter death
Words drip to a stop for all the tired writers
For today there is nothing
Good
To report