on the roof (take two, part two)

the firmament is solid, dressed on metals trusses but on the underfoot of the sky fraternity sails adrift

cubicles, sitting on                                                                                           on the far end here our stories end
dozens of earthworms                                                                         row houses, propped by a retired truss                                                               crowning bold alluvial soil                                                      tucked deeper into rich ribbon farm soil
mud plastered over cuticles,                                        stretching thin from a plump imagination
under nails, driven to the dozens                          to a time when boots never licked mud
against aluminum foil painted ovens,            grace survived puddles and blood
kilns and cousins, laughing to the dozens only lived on scraped knees

we can count, on our six fingered hands, at least a dozen times, excited hands and feet running down second street, waiting for the sun to spit, from household fly eyes, a compound bright light, to skip by

gloriously fluorescent and free
full on a fortnight of mild Tuesdays
nights as clear and waif as winter films
austere, this magic wood scent that blows
at least a dozen or so content breezes off a roof
dropping it to the floor,  microbial and bored, to chew
through everything we feel so sure about, even in the face

until just around eleven fifty nine, or before
just when all our last hope was surely forever lost
just when the poor people’s march was about done
just about the time before the speaker was to speak
just as she cleared her throat and started to speak
and just as the microphone throttled to start,
the roof collapsed, setting our sky free

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