through a fissure in workspace
a dark rake of clouds across the sky
a nation is a vibrant collage of steel
and glass encampments like upended
Olympic pools glorious so friction-free so
many cars below like a swarm of small
frogs out the inevitable glass both window
and wall the eye sways and falls where
the body cannot and the two-tone clouds spread
their arms preaching to the blue
congregation a sermon of somber grace and
rage unheard by the man with his fingers
perched in worry on his forehead like a wary
spider
Fiction - ISSUE #28