All girding is industrial muscle-flexing, all piers, pillars, staunchions, thrust up against a lowering sky, like a strong man heaving his barbells up to heaven. A pier’s gridding and strapping (see the aerated Eiffel Tower, still breathing through all its iron lungs) is its tendonizing, the corded mapping of the flow of its rusting energies.
This is a fallen unicycle (throwing a uni-shadow) or, no, perhaps not, perhaps (rather) it’s a (rather) wounded astrolabe, no longer able to read the courses of the winds and the stopgap stars.
The pen-nib tops of these two stylo towers—possibly broken off, possibly snapped away—make them a ruin. All broken, ruined towers are lodged, in our now reorganized memories, as cataclysmic towers, huge cloud-cutting architectural machetes, meanly milled swords of Damocles, no threat now only pain.
Sublunary ladders impress you with what they know, and are extensions of surprise. But the topless ladders of the mind, leaning for support against clouds of unknowing, dissolve every certainty you had, leaving you as skinless as a raindrop.
Out the window, things go by in a milky rush. Telephone lines, pulled like violin strings, grow hot as copper while you watch. I cannot leave this world when there is so much left to do.