Josh Adler, Philadelphia

You are smiling dearie. Your tongue is out. The syrup meets your youthful lips with a relief, and a color that is not your own. Meanwhile THE SIGNS stagger past window after window.

You put your indivisible head down on the invisible decrees. THE SERPENT they say has cast you past castigation. You dream of the words through the windows, lying like milky Popeful lies. They say black. They say white. They say no signs here today. But THE SIGNS are here. Your palms are printed as the bone of history…

You’re going to make it work for you. You toggle ancient claws with a blink, as they prepare THE ICE. You consider the reach of the letters. They call no man father. They follow you through the windows, while you keep to your dreams. You could reach outside. You could reach all the way back to the 4th of July, or THE RAINBOW BRIDGE. You reconsider.

Your cheek grows chilly colder. THE SNAKE dismembers THE SIGNS. You are the sleepy visitor, yourself as ever. Sipping away insipidly, you are so easy. Not a letter in THE WORLD can save you.