lungs of our land

Sometimes the world's moonish, and sometimes it ain't. But when it is, it's just like you think, a silver envelope upon us, like some distant flashlight catches the wide face of our dime-world and in the shadow of Frankie's jawline we gaze upon our great oldtime movies.

But when it ain't, that's what one might call the tides. That is, a pulling of selves, like loons, upward, floating, waiting, wailing, alone, and that's how we spend most days. Being pulled.