The arrogance of skyscrapers starving for something not glass and metal and concrete. I thought I could hear the lake muttering, "There is no place better to have the blues than Chicago."
A person made not of flesh but of little crystals of perfection she heard in her voice the echo of his Obi ocha. A clean heart.
Blue eyes as soft as the periwinkle the upper world has called but would give no help
God crackles over the intercom, listen to me listen to me listen to me
Our feastfires have faded to candles in winter snow, after a funeral.