And I look at all the buttons on people’s weathered backpacks with phrases from television shows or books that the owner of the bag thinks are clever but the truth is they aren’t clever at all (it’s all context), and the dull brass keys from doors that have been locked a thousand times by a hundred different people, and the fleece blanket that has all its soft spots wearing off that the Irish lady stole from an airplane that stitched a tag into the lining that asks you not to remove the blanket from the aircraft  (but apparently someone did),  and the splitting seams on that girl’s favored jacket (the mint colored one with the inconsistent stripes of neon yellow and indigo), and the readymade holes in another girl’s jeans that have a spider web quality that mostly exposes the skin on rough knees but still binds the jeans together (pressing into her flesh and leaving impressions that give rise to a wave of pain), and the transparency that the brown sugar skirt has when backlit by the invading sunrise (emphasizing each layer of fabric between legs and the visible later of cloth),  and the defined wooden planks used in place of grout in between huge stone panels that pave the ground at the lookout point (splintering and damp from new light and old mornings, and the solitary golden hair caught between her fingers and the page her pen is pressed upon (soon she will have to brush it away with her long sleeve), and all the dead eyes (tranquil now with little energy to keep them functioning), and the bumping feet that beat in thin canvas shoes as they try to keep circulation flowing and sleep out of their toes, and all the reflective screens of phones trying to (unsuccessfully) capture the ferocity of the morning, and the concentration in the eyes of the bewildered  and the frequent appraises of sunlit beauty, and the fidgeting the girl with the spandex leggings and short leather boots initiates in her oversized black and white flannel top that catches on the protruding stones of the wall I sit on, and the fresh air that enters warm when I face the burning planet and then cold when I look away. I’m so tired I wonder why I can’t see the stars, but I remember its morning now and I can’t help but wonder

What is the point of beauty?