the asphalt around the chrystler building, seen from above one hundred years from now, will clearly tell the story, the way that crop circles tell the knowledgable which dates to stay up without sleep. over head, on zepplins, men with oilslick skin & latte coloured uniforms. come over on long winds from the caspian sea, they stare & crackle. their children live underground & they still want to know why. why language lost pronouns, & why bodies bleed transmission fluid, slick otherworldy colours. what the old books mean when they say the sky was blue. & why they never mention the glow.