Monday, January 26, 2009

at the tip of fingers


who to call on among the smoke and the chatter. unless you pray a mouth of sulphur, tongue the particle in laced lung and kiss the corners around you. at every turn, you call it down with your lips. at every bead of smog, touch a piece of your body to the edge of corners and breathe in. breathe in and give it with both hands. give it until you can't chant any louder. give it until the standard oil lifts, melts and you strain your chin to the blackened sky. you forgive the streams of steam in the air. steam, you say out loud. that's what you tell yourself it is. you say it's just cold.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I hope you remember me..
I met you when you were living in DUMBO.:-)