Abstract
the crows warn this is invented nostalgia, create random patterns with loose stitches and prove the futility of mending a dissecting sky.The crows sweep low, they perch on arthritic branches and the telegraph crosses that no longer carry any transport of connection.The crows crescendo into a clangor within the body of false memory and I stumble but grasp only air. The exhausted dust is blown to the embrace of sprouting green obscure in the curbs of the urban village's protracted rebirth. Missing landmarks cast shadows still upon redrawn streets paved over coins lost from carelessly clenched fists.
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