Behold then, under varied awnings
of all stripes unfolding with whimsy
despite an August sun dawning
early over clouds acting clumsy
and uneven, a few men flock
past storefronts to just simply gawk
at the wares behind the windows.
One particular plain-spoken man
rolled his eyes about like some token
set of hills where maidens of Diane
would hunt naked using oaken
bows and arrows made from dead gods' bones
then the man took out a few stones
and threw them against the glass.
Shattering and scattering downward
as alarms sound in wild amusement
while the man smashes a foul word
through a fresh and empty arrangement
of pure space brought on by the slight
incongruity that one might
expect from living in Quicksand.
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