Evening lights hum with
the sound of our voices
in this vacuum
where,
from the place that is always moving,
the seasons
blend into an unrecognizable landscape
of new faces and old buildings
and they all pull together, held by the warmth
of lamps on the street, gold in the dark,
the particles of hope that are born from all sorts of evil imaginable,
out of the rabbit hole, out through the looking glass.
And in the droplets of psychoactive reciprocity
the wasteland reflected betrays
the only claim
that the moment holds on
being holy.
