First Monday, 42nd Street.






 



 


Skins are hugging the concrete
In the confined spaces between the boiling suspension points
We nearly forget pride is desperately trying to investigate the sky’s secrets
Skins are melting in the nylon soft hisses
The drums of the proto-active hive permeate our fragile tubes
The Eustachian ones ask for quietness
The Fallopian ones ask for movement