The Block

No change beyond air
smelling faintly of old piss.
A neon liquor store sign
strains to break the overcast.
How November moves.
Stunted palm tree’s
stunted shadow sutures
curb to street, street to
curb—to lawn glazed
white with television. I
walk, watch day dissolve
as if on waking’s edge—
those impossible lines
consciousness repels.

Joseph Massey (© 2012)