the last cars drove away, the sky filled up with sequins
as they're sweeping out the pigeons that are sleeping on the postcards of the pictures of the yard
that's brown and wilted in the summer sometimes people hide inside, they say they're scared of poison from the heat they find exhausting
circling round i'm walking backwards when you're leading
the floor was wearing bare from two-steps, slides, and friction like the spit dried on a spoon that's pushing ice cubes around a high ball sweating please into your hand
even in disappointing weather that was hanging in the air
for a half an hour, it doesn't really matter
if you find the postcards stored in pieces in the yard leave them outside
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