Air # 17 - June Of 44

Black hole in the midwest

Four eyes

Flat on our backs, bare skin

Discovered an enchanted

An understated manifesto

In the stacks of a flooded library

Picturesque vision

By the same door

The word is a stone

And an open sword

And you can’t stop this

It’s three stories high

Loaded with electricity

Air number thirteen

Three stories high

9000 square feet

And the fans are on fire

And their water is on our floor

Layers of dust and carbon

An unsuspected surveillance

We can compare mosquito bites

And wish for vacations