We are made
for these clothes to affirm the wind
— the fabric flap
This is the blow or billow
the punch or the thief
-pling the viscous lake
that is our cheeks
until we’re stretched.
Trace the wind
with the breaths
of its workers.
I’m playing a game of accusations with billboards. A man with a smile is a paid man. The price is before taxes and sex with your boss.
Stipulation. Subscriptions. Somnambulists. An accident: brain splatter.
The asphalt aisle intelligent, more than
the police probing it.
This is the red light saying do not cross the road
This is the flesh-drenched road, the blackness of night
remembering how light leaks to become blood
An investment ad with an American hunk reminds us
a face locked in color
is a face that wants your body.
The city breathes at night, its avenue chests
in synchrony to sleepers
opens its crystal eyes.
The breeze metallic, the taste of rubber
when you speak.
The building guards, the friendliest
they could be maybe
that’s why burglars come
at this time. The city’s eyes: they don’t show
you the way.
You get lost in them. And so you wait
you wait, darling
take a seat, now
and throw your eyes into the void above
for the sweet & boring
daylight to come
guide you home.