If I'm a blasted bundle of buildings, then I'm put back together in the image of a street. From the salvage yard of brick and the carrion field of steel, I'm fit for the frills of storefront canopies. They've hung signs on me. I'm mottled and reflect the sun in every time of day. I'm an old theater, a department store, and a pharmacy reconstructed and converted. But from what vantage point, what remote place, can I see myself as this something more than a teetering teem of hodge podge? From the air where the rooflines blend like tributaries to a a greater elevation? From underground where the septic hiss is a dark dank stream? If I'm blasted buildings and bundles of bricks then the impact of that rent, that tear, is concealed in the embrace of the limbs of time that support the renovated thrust of my precarious evolutionary thunk.
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