The eye of the
soul is this attention. An
early
morning downpour is ordinary; Donald Trump is banal. I keep writing
inside a
container-paragraph's
four walls. The girls run
up our stairs in sun hats, imagining they're
immigrants trying to break
through. The glass in condos
frees us to imagine transparency, if we can afford a studio with
ocean-view. There's the word “love” again, emblazoned in the ad;
love
is a view of an incessant blue sky, but it will cost you. The
windows don't open; they turn ocean into show.
Trump stands
on a Scottish golf course, bagpipers standing
at attention behind
him. The Chieftain of no we
can't, of henna hackles tweet!
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