It is not a shared empty glass. The eyeball. We are far more than emptiness. Perhaps, between acts, even every magician's assistant knows we are all one and not sawed in half with our lesser part tossed or lost. Still, less we know of the broken heart, the better. The propeller on the City Hall proves time flies, even when it's stuck, even when creation somehow happens again in the mornings as the crows teach their little ones to creep. No one knows what time it is. And everyone knows what time it is. One may worry no one will ever know what your eyes have to say, no matter how perfectly swirled and colorfully sprayed. And unread. Better unsaid. If only they were meant to somehow save the very dead who are about to lose a mind and tread, now ever numb. I sit on a stoop in a blur of a city holding tight a hubcap. Soon I'll be shooed away from here, but until then, let me enjoy the drive-in and the moving pictures.

It rushes like the rumble strips and stripes of the highway just before a crash. I hear the loop of the unseen ghost calling. Or, maybe the whole wide wallow is only the Lord crying. For me. Beckoning, beckoning, and ongoing. Knowing that no matter my mortal mountain, no matter my creviced cliffs and inevitable ash, all along I belong to the vast sky and not alone. Even here after the stolen, now trashed car. Even now as I walk past the empty flower beds. Somewhere higher there are petals with wings. Nothing to fear in the dark and unknown. It is why here on the crowded city sidewalk, or in the eventual dead end alley, the Lord is all around urging me to finally see the unseen hibiscus and know things. All our colors. And soon, I hear them. Each and each and each, Even the dahlias speak. Back and forth with the raven.