My brother and sister are busy.
We are alone in the Bodega's.
Carry maps and a compass.
The wheel is bent
yet works provisionally.
At the end of the process:
refractory shards of the truth
just standing there.
Manufacturer's utilize a cavernous
garage for their truth too.
And as I criss cross borough tracks
within intransigent afternoon precincts
I get a happy spirit.
Released from either end point,
released from personality