on this - the one way - the way that these things come - with little preparation and heavy instigation, thoughts that think they’ve seen better times and skies that whine like wicker, so fine caught a flame and set steady and able to begin to disintegrate. solace was a certain kind of sympathy that set this incinerating quality - among the trees. and layed asphalt over dirt roads - made streets meaner than i can be. and this morning it wasn’t green. it rained this morning - i smelled smoke expelling the warmth within - and this morning was grey and wet and i saw your face without sunlight.
and and and the sight sunk in so straight solid deep in that i can’t even begin to begin to talk like i speak with tongue above chin, and a happy set of sockets shrinking to thin double grins.
i see i see i see people spy with my skeptical spectacles, pigeons nearly never fly -
usually nothing not even a cloud in the sky - but this morning i set foot into cold and dark and squeezed my crooked fingers cupping forearms tight - against my little - peanut brittle- person. and i looked up at faces with low brows beneath dark hair - stare so steep you’d slip crawling up that heap. a deterrent so deep - i can feel the strangers creep next to me -
a delirium built on defense with the pretense of desperate poverty. and i can see the greasy walkways beneath my feet - brick stucco cement - the scent - nearly clean. and in to rain the gutters speak with watery squeaks - draining away the rusted rain and so and so i don't feel lonely but i feel alone in a full bus depot.