A sky that’s all legs, running on blue. Blue for miles, big as a book. But what good is all blue.
I’m just asking.

Bluebells all in tantrum. Like trains stripped of their signals. Galloping blind into the west.

Why cross the George Washington if you don’t have to. Fran lights a cigarette, shakes her head
no thank you.

All this clanging, for what it’s worth.

Steamed fish dumplings in the basement. Still hot. We swallow without blinking.

I suppose I could eat anywhere, is what I’m saying.

Forsythias spilling over the sidewalk. No idea there’s only room for two here. Petals aflame like
we’ve been counting to ten or something. Say it again.

Ten, or something.

Fran where are you going, the lights are still green

And everyone is coming outside to meet you.