Hypethral

 

Halo of stutter-
     light in every window 
Signs lettered with the names
     of streets that once
weren't chained to any one
     particular destination
As opposed to how at dusk 
     my mouth is a cave in which 
a hundred bats will not 
     stop careening 
In the park horses wait
     to be led through paths
thick with tourists 
     and camera clicks 
That sound isn't rain
     but dry pine needles
They too are looking for 
     openings in a field of breath