As I walk down to what used to be-
but its not what used to be.
To a tiny shop where we bought our glass worlds that fit in the palm of your hand.
The figurines
inside reflections of our first gazes of ourselves. As I imagine in our pedestrian dreams we were so happy,
plastic, molded.
With all glass all that's left of the real-
Objects, objects of this play.
The blood on my feet as it dries on the floor conceals the base of this marble.
Stumbling back,
the ceiling s more than just caved in;
it was never there to begin with.

"We stare at the sky from this red rock"

says the ancient woman.

"There's not one worth saving".

It's hidden sure, but not forgotten-
we're shaken sure, and now immobile.
Tonight with these clouds blocking my way home,
the red light from our shells will light what used to be my way home.
But it's hard to remember the way with the signs blown all apart,
with these holes all over the street-
where we used to walk so far..