the white-winged ceiling fan ticks its rhythym it goes on the way it did when i was much younger and knew much less i fail to get the pencil lines curved just right and the black black pupils of my eyes wander and squint in the dim lighting where i find my lists half-complete there are citites filled with forgotten pigeons and so many faces and mountains with lakes and leaves their enormous heights and the flat brown heat of deserts with their lizards and turquoise beads deep jungles of green vines and cooing birds they come in every colour and neighbourhood sidewalks beg for the company of a bicycle tire or a rubber sole the people the people and the hearts inside them all oh God my God and the struggle of Man gravity laughs pulling us to the core of everything earthly yet the earth itself ticks its rhythym for Him as it has since way back when.
