From the overpass in the twisting sky he could see seven stripes of asphalt curving over the long hill in sunlit formation; an inverted Thai princeling’s crown revolved, a hard tear under a tall road sign. An open shot of gravelly forget-me-not, framed in a raven’s crooked wings, the north wind beats like a moth on a light: spangle of welder’s brilliance a boutonniere, fell into the well of fires: warmth and patina of copper lavish and floral and welling up, tears in the well’s impenetrable dark.

Triangled trickling steps tap stairs up and down, cascading mazes inside feeling looser than stones, freer than feathers of crooked wings. Step, and turn, and keep his balance, till in the middle of the long hill, the day, sweeping over the unused lanes beneath, he looks out from the twist in the sky, and the tear has not fallen from the sign.

2023/03/12 #DailyWrittenOOM