Wooden
poles taper, building height or greater, stained dark and hairy with
splinters, uninviting. But the wires above. Spaghetti between
chopsticks. Crossing back and forth, draping over streets. Over black
and gray and white concrete. Above-ground, they call them.
Spangled with birds in good weather. Empty tonight. Black lines
crossing blocks, down hills and over. Just outside my window
patchwork of parked cars and poorly lit potholes. The late train
cries out, but the wires don't move, don't listen. Aren't meant to,
or won't. Tuned to other voices, coming from other places. Silent
carriers string us together, long-limbed and thin, electrical
messengers. Always busy, rarely in motion. Festively minimal. Like
strings between paper cups or cans. Playing telephone. Carrying so
much on cables thinner than ropes. Sky stanchions, holding back the
houses and bigger groups of apartments. Indicating quadrants, lines
layered over receding distance. Obsolete standard of future
transmissions, laying on the air, day or night, draping. Looking like
they're lacking a trained animal on a tiny unicycle, or mustachioed
brothers in form-fitting sequins, a long white pole parallel to the
ground. Latitudinal shadows often going unnoticed. Organic gridwork,
spare pinstripes whisper, subdividing all around.
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