Structural Debt

I walked into the corner of the porch at ten

and felt the sticky tether snap across my eye.

I’m an intruder in a world of wire again,

a clumsy giant under a black, velvet sky.

There’s a dead moth suspended behind the heat,

wrapped in a rigging of silver and dust.

The geometry is perfect, the architecture neat,

anchored to a bicycle spoke covered in rust.

It’s a debt built in silence while I was asleep,

a series of bridges that I didn't authorize.

It’s the kind of secret that the corners keep,

waiting for a face or a handful of flies.