XIX. What Did You Do While They Were Gone?
**
They still play Golden Hour here.
The oat milk hears no sigh.
These vapid gazes don’t prehend
the grayer-colored sky.
The chorus croons, and no one swoons,
they just wait out the day,
while whitewashed tile and skinny style
take filters’ jobs away.
We all have our before-times here:
before the city’s shift;
before the newest anchors dropped
and set us each adrift.
And we each had our anchor once,
but in the heat of day,
what god could call to aching mind
the boats we sent away?
They still play Golden Hour here.
The ice waters it down.
It’s all a little mournful when
it’s got this tinny sound.
By now our new clichéd refrain
has grown and wound up old.
But vapid gazes can’t prehend:
That sky, it once was gold.
**
XXI. Acceleration
