The clouds require that we touch.
That we [you all] combine like a sunset.
That we keep our motors to ourselves like lonely huts and busted, bare-chested gods made from highway fonts and me, reducing on the stove.
I howl at the you all and point at your act.
The clouds outline the city.
Let the clouds outline the city.
I have a plan that involves this whole country parking and fucking.
Swaying and marrying time.
Fisting clarity and gentrifying each other’s faces.
I’m not—it was a mistake.
But then the renovation, that big four-eyed fantasy.
That old, bearded impossible.
That time no one came back for us.