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Some Days in the City

Some days, the sky descends to the level of mid-thigh water

the clock-hands come loose, and language is a skiff

over land through the rhythm of your breathing, girl

then I can hear the pink oriole, the body is a metronome

of blood and syllables beating placentas of speech

and news tingles like a caress of words still to be spoken:


umbrellas, bracelets, sleepers in doorways, police and victim—


I wind these objects to strike my human self dead

so as to taste the massy hive, the bloom and sounds

following my spending to gather up the pennies, kisses

meant for you, lost in transit, I follow my own kisses

to rooms in European cities, to the bottom of a shot glass


like a piece of economy flung about the streets

I spit pronouns, you fall from my lips, bewildered

I fall to the tracks, a suicide, a trembling drunk at Du Pont

and this day is a book left ajar, next to the rain.