HIGH-RISE Shannon Tharp Illiterate here, sequestered there, those windows are just a house torn around auroras we know as distortions.
	Evenly spaced vehicles press into a flock of hail. Anger's made stranger by self-editing. To forgive you each day's a ritual. There, where least words thaw taut water, everything wants a narrative. One copes with helicopters by choosing a bird to listen to. Crow towing a sliver of tinsel—Again— its color drew you. Night clouds a violet's inversion. Suddenly the sun's a stone. Mirror, improbable as when you first saw it. You own it. You own it now.