in a squint, it all looked like the
45 minute drive through yellow night,
into the push and pull of parallel parking
and 6 blocks to everywhere.
i walked somewhere in between the
everything that lived either overhead
or underground because my
hands were too clean to stay.
i miss the hunched step and grit
and teeth and city bite. there was
no-one there anymore but people:
great rushing crowds of them, and
they were beautiful in a lonely way.
it was a comfortable pressure,
like a warm, screaming womb,
and the smoke always sang me to sleep.
tonight, i will listen
to country clouds in a house
with a yard and a porch and
no strangers anymore. it is
a sweet and easy place, but
the quiet plays too brightly for me.
i will squint again and hope for dreams
of the dark, where everything is
taller and louder and so much
less than any of this.