Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Somewhere

the cornices of the facades on King st
are gray with soot and mold and dust;
the citys leavings.

the traffic is an endless pull and strum.
a woman with a snake around her neck
swings along the street, her hips tightly budded
in jeans.

the sky peels open, parts of its white flesh showing.
translucent lace.

the salt of the air is heaviness. a tangy flowing down
on me.

you are somewhere in the city. i wait.
your friday night kisses undelivered, your promises
delayed by the mundane failures of transportation.

all i wish is to be held and held and held.

and now comes the rain;
i wait this through, too.

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