DART Across the City
THERE ARE MOMENTS in that decembering time when the clocks say morning but the sky says night. Birds from up mother holler in the branches made of more feather than tree. At these hours the rail lines run over wet steel and cold brick and carry the women and men who sell coffee to those who ride the rail lines over dry steel and sundry brick. There are moments here when the city clock stutters–not the machine atop ol' Red–but the spirit of the machine made digital at every corner. The translation is mostly immaculate, except for those sparse minutes when all lanes glow red.
@JoeyDiZoglio is an amateur critic who writes about games, Lovecraft, and Freud. He will attend
Alpert Medical School in the fall.