we ride against fragile blues, wild dirt; the island air blows unabashed on our salt-watered tongues. we jam our throats with local treasures souring home

after Água Viva from it i hear Garden strum its xylophone ribs, grapevine flowers beating early on wax handles, mottled galaxy of magenta springs.

After Don DeLillo’s Coming Sun. Mon. Tues. The boy insults him beautifully it comes out like high fashion it is a graffitied

I. melting soles stumble over city sidewalks, crush cigarette butts exhaling languid breaths, their doused fireflies flitting to dark refuge under glass-tiled towers burning bright, ginza and heels meshing in desolate charm to the pulse of hollow convenience store chimes. II. her tight tweed pencil skirt threatens liberty from the day’s unremitting demands, her pallid high-walled cubicle offhandedly coined a second home. now, she wears it out of plain old habit in the office and out. even as she staggers to the underground izakaya, this stupidly ugly skirt collars her. her legs tremble in night’s crispness; she takes neat, standard strides as though day had never left. they are seamless, liquid. she wonders if it will ever end, this endless march. rolling shutters. pristine