Down from the (un)heavens snakes continents, the twilight sky a bronze glass. The distant skyscrapers look like chairs for false gods from here where I gaze out with 900 faces at the hazy waves around the port, the only wound I have being the last bit of light falling over the side of the world. My brain’s certain this place is a door, shadows bent around its rim. I bring the garden of my past up to the threshold.