Rarely, there is a day
with razor clarity, all the

edges, sharp, no fuzziness on the
round spiders, when the sun

creates millions more colors
than god originated, where

streets are empty but not
unfriendly, warm like blankets,

when architecture pops at me,
telling me man could not make

those buildings without god,

and while two days ago, the
sun’s fall angle burnt depression

on to my fingernails, today,
the angle is close to

perfect, where there is no
high noon, and I look

out from within my catacombs,
high above the gray, pock-marked

street, and all of me but some frail
string of spirit wants to

jump, knowing it is only with that
clarity in how it will end quickly.

.