What is there left to miss? handfuls of dust? scentless as the dry moon? when every precious drop was more than enough? when each aroma has salted the sea?
SECOND SIGHT Out on a balcony or in the hall by an open window for a smoke, that’s where we meet, the city at our feet the lights glistening in the night like a shining of the apocalypse as if the constellations had fallen— the lights glistening on the opposite hillsides so that, what I’m saying is the lights we see are like the stars of fallen constellations glistening on the distant hill only we don’t notice it we don’t notice it then.
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