Coming back from Sullivan County, rushing by a river,
Skimming the earth like wind,
In a moment of parked repose, the trees reach to the Sistine Chapel.
As night falls, bridging our way from burbs to urban, dread narrowing my thoughts.
We fly down the west side through lurid beauty: cramped trees growing in concrete. I prepare to meet what it means to be the daughter of Sol.
Faces alike, countered spirits, from the other side, his reign remains.