It's a landslide, a connection, a collection, a drymouth, smile too dessicated to bleed, a blunt introduction to a painful rash, a too-tight collar under a too-tight squeezing grip, it's metal not armor, shards of conversation not looking glass, it's the march up Testament Hill in felt sandals on broken ankles to read the daily news -- dire of course -- from the leaves browning despite the Spring: warmed zephyrs, it's a woman worth a million dollars and penniless in her soul, it's these marks from neuron to muscle to ink to pen to page to screen telling you what it is, it is a circle, endless, Moebius, a spiral kite in the sky above the browning leaves, in the sky above, where you are not looking.

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