January with traces of snow. Only a hint of white
or the suggestion of it. Locked in a sound-proof
room, music swirling around my edges. And
afterwards words again, and flavours, while the
sky circled uneasily, its vessels clanking like a virgin.
When you began to speak the sound of it was
cool and umbilical blue, the snow sinking
so slowly that no one noticed it. And I tilted
my head then, and ate of it.
How forgetful you are, my residue
during this season of school-girl skirts
and knee socks, pulled up to the bruised
and battered knee. In my ear one word
dislodged a dazzled heartbeat as I waited
for your answer. What I would tell you: the
subway cars are thick with city-mess, a
cloud-hung sky outside, a circus. Today
is a yellow day. The streets swell with bicker
and click-clock as I maneuver through pant
legs and sue-me suits, all up for my eye’s envy.
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