I went down, not on your arm 
at least a million stairs 
twelve floors and the void 
on each step as we went, 
you always a little ahead. 
 
You finished your drink 
at the bottom, plastic cup 
in your hand emptied 
of mine, the heat coiling up, 
sirens screeching.
                        

Rainwater amasses behind the ill-painted 
benches, the underpasses conjoin 
bulging knots of despair. The long 
city of tents gleams blue  
under the slanted downpour, 
beyond faded billboards the tower is ablaze 
in the gray glare of rain. 
 
The brown mass of Grady burns fast 
with renewed life, toxic with water and light. 
Rain pours over the deserted milestones 
down on the Olympics’ remains, 
it pools on the great expanse of the malls. 
On the skin it’s acidic and thin. 
 
The world is full. We drive out unawares.
                        

The glare on the water pushes you through 
the small snake of the beach 
tightly coiled at your feet. A scent 
of pine needles heightens the sun, cruel 
golden mouth that swallows the day. 
 
Leaves twisted in intricate shapes, skin 
twitching in sudden cool shadows as the narrow eye 
beckons with dull, pounding chant: 
across the high arch the air tingles with pain, 
viscous room where no one ever enters. 
 
Mud glues you down, slick door left ajar 
to the past: and all you do is sink. A sudden ray 
hurts your eyes, turned away from the twirls 
and graffitied marks: you’re standing still, but all  
your friends are dead. 
 
You lift your eyes: the air vibrates with light.