There is a mania of regency
Like a horse that never tires
even after hours of dexterous manual labor
There must be a trail of smoke
Down this rainy street, a stillness
black cats cross, slipping into the brickyard
upon my own rhetoric
As if a million microcorrections
Complete the semblance of an idea
As if perched between the future and now
A precipice opens that seems so clear
palpably thin, sanding the grain of time into practice
