History, majestic as a parking garage, spits us out
into the flinty twilight and look how nice it feels
to be constantly dissolving. Regardless, we endure this series
of stumblings, our minds galvanized by the mutinous air
and, though our point disappears behind its own static,
signs of the move are everywhere. As miniatures of the vital
impulse, what we do next should be something beautiful:
eat a torch, light an orange, focus on the parts of the dotted line
that were never line to begin with. There are backhoes
and there are omelets. There are cherry trees and there is blood.
That’s as much a narrative as anyone needs.