agile founderings and piecemeal flotations.

    The crowd constitutes a gravitational field

    that slaps back at the ground， numbed

    and maddened by ground‘s constant suckling.

    The crowd embodies a depression in fabric

    more than an attraction. Its angled， arteried， fleet

    fantasias of need sway in

    a loopy， bobbing dance without strings.

    It‘s this sense of movement the organism uses

    to believe in its own existence， the palpable presence

    of an intangible parade， uncertain

    planetary marches， a supernumerary of stars.

    In its mania for artifice the crowd has sewn the sky

    with these shiny extras. Embodied

    adoration， they snap the organism shut

    before tickling it open again

    with reedy gestures. Breathe.

    The crowd‘s louche body

    clings and parts in place， an ovation

    rigid and adrift， alive. It is the sea

    that sweeps the sea.

    Broom tight with inner bickering.

    A mortal scour. Meaning，

    how the crowd hates the crowd.

    Outwardly. It admits you or me

    as an enormous lidless eye admits glittering

    beams. Endless watching， washing us in.

    The crowd‘s object， its point，

    is always vanishing into its own mass. It is a sea

    with no concern for us， even as it scores.