What’s Underneath

It’s funny how the past sits against the bars of my reach. It’s a grizzled thing, grown into the temples. There are steel pipes coiled like worms in the flat grey sky.

I saw a cat, I mean I think I did, turning like it’s back was broken, jerking and assuming hard poses, making rigid prisons of him. He fought, with frightened eyes. There were ghosts there, beneath the shattered skylights, hurting him spitefully, hiding in their playgrounds.

Computers sometimes recollect this space, the edge of the calculable where they may resolve some loop and glitch the static air, finding gods notching turning wheels with a syntax like light.