november 12

november 12

Breezy and raining.

In the city this morning, rain crawls up
shoulders of empty buses,
and a man muddles by, a staff in either hand,
like a prophet, and his dog,
upstream on the sidewalk,
strays as each jagged scent
separates, empties and clears.
When I was young, I rode
the streetcar from one end of the city
to the other, looking out into
the swish of words.
Now, I walk over my reflection,
the heel of my boot against its throat,
teaching water to be air.

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