There is a place not so haunted, that has remained, bearing the sound of a muted rain lashing on car windows, on a long street without sharp angles, and several red stop lights the low monotony of wipers going left - up - left - up I have been walking around waiting, for the bells I hear to mean revolution, and the prisons of strong cars To not be in my mind, but with everyone inside not too close to not breathe. I see the blobs streetlights, in watercolor yellow, and midnight white No matter which street this is, or which day, or what festival we are decorating for, or what turn of the seasons, has brought us here To buy a ride is anonymous disappearance in an unnamed city. No matter how I hold your hand, or whose hand it is i hold, and what questions you ask, about the dredges and trails of the days memory, What kind of times are these, where to be in these fifteen minutes of false safety must be, as, to be in motion?
Mostly I brush life off my shoulder when it falls gently from a tree, or when it grows from my shirt like lint. Mostly i sigh it away like a laugh from an unfounded joke or a waft of extra air in speech. Except sometimes.