Here are the ruins. Here is the avalanche.

Here are the gods, content to tremble

in their nests. Here are the elevators that go

nowhere. Here is the speaker music can

come out of, but it chooses not to. Here are

the myths. Here is their proof. Here is the

hurricane of letters, joyously flinging them

into itself. Here is the neon sign. Here is

the bar, empty save for everyone. Here is

the church, empty save for everyone. Here

is the sky. Here is the spectrum of color.

Here are the wasted days. Here are the

closed curtains. Here is the nighttime. Here

are the streets going on below. Here is the

glass. Here is the broken glass. Here is the

gracious misstep. Here is the blood staining

the shoe. Here is the mountain. Here is

the entrance that goes right to the top. Here

is the tiger waiting at the top. Here is the

paper it’s made of. Here is the weakness.

Here are the fields. Here are the skyscrapers.

Here are the old dreams. Here is the bread.

Here are the digital ghosts, returning,

returning, returning. Here is the inevitable.

Here is the unpredictable. Here is the mud

brought inside. Here is the rain going

back. Here is nothing going back. Here is

all that’s left. Here is all that’s going to be.