Article 12

They have you
in a white bed

I am
where the magazines
are no one’s

coverless

across the blank car park a spire
waits with me

in the white sky
that holds up the planes

the white sky is stretching
around its birds
I am

with the magazines’
loud nothing

the spire turns
brown to black

birds settle
down from the orange sky

I am
folded.