ruins

Ty Holter

 

often when I’m walking and I latch
onto a scene, say the numbness
of a foyer

a light demanding
presence, like the hum inside
caffeine

I’ll come across a staircase
in the alley

and its refusal to be stairs
and its daydream of the sky

but to your question as a child
as to when the city will be finished

I think of how I once drowned
my great-grandfather’s Buick in a ditch

and what the tow-truck driver told me
from the way his eyelids lagged that

our designs were elsewhere, seeping
dying to be let in

 

 


Ty Holter is a writer, welder, and literature student in Denver, Colorado. Find him on Twitter at @tylerleeholter.