Настроение:	tired
Entry tags:	poetry, поток сознания

on a street corner
where they once hung a pair of sneakers
from the powerlines
for petty crimes
where arms look like switchyards
and bottles vanish in ruffled brown sacks
like most dollar dreams
and the foot on the gas
is as light as a feather, stiff as a board
where worlds collide less often than words
as they sail past each other
separated by nothing more
than 6.38 laminated glass
as they do revolve around their own suns
somewhere in the center of your universe
there is a big supermassive
currently pressed hard against the cheap fabric
of a car seat

This is Hartford.