A whale soars over Brooklyn. Clouds spread in streaks over the pale blue sky like cold butter. And the whale cleaves right through. Dar spots it from his perch on the rooftop, smoking a contraband cigarette. At first, it looks like the whale is just playing. Bobbing in and out of the clouds the way calves do during their migratory season. But the whale is too large to be a calf; it casts a shadow over the entire block as it glides directly overhead.

there’s a word—but it’s gone, stolen, seized in the raid; the others have it now

rain / tinged with lavender, mild scent / of rot and freshness.