a rooftop awaits. brickwalled towers
enclosed on the hills up there.
I await the intensity that you bring softly
the storm inside the tomb.
These are those more international evenings
where we feed our foreign selves in photographs
clearer puddles, rooftop puzzles. City
passing you by.
To be settled in the heart and spree
to one’s feet. It’s fine
to dream in spectacular unison
if you contain it in a dream.
Fumbling particulars in this curious language
dislocating identification
throttling absence of vision, or at least
the sad end of another sentence lost on enormous maps of words.
this all would be a lie
if it weren’t.
April [9/15]
ericryangrant.com 