Cow by cow the city levels itself. Which side of the bubble do I (we) live in. Not difficult to say: the one just slightly down, or up, depending where the bubble gets it: observed. Cows at the corner store or buried.
Where does the level lay? All along the hills. Hill to hill (flat?) the armature of steel sits measuring. Measure, measure.
Not that the little wrappers and people don’t walk under, they do, and not to the river. They walk and watch the rust attach to the bottom of the measure. Appropriate to be measured so. So, appropriate. And no smell brings the neighborhood out, no lawn to BBQ.
There is the bridge to Kentucky routing. Here is the present, measuring the quality of gin. Cheap and held over for the measure of morning. What? We gaze up.