All the Sky’s a Stage and all the Clouds are Merely Players.

You walk down the unnoticeable incline into
the city. You look to the skies where the weather
systems rehearse a performance they will give you
next time. You see the bowl of the heavens reflect
the skull’s roundness – and all car sounds in its
persistence. You love this. It is, you think, the mark
of a walk’s greatness to array contingency
in its random archways you sigh. And walk on through
the headache as the white grey blues yellow