The press of air lays flat onto me,
drying my sweat
on a life of skin,
the surface flavor of salt,
the product of my drifting
released to run onto
my face and arms,
its paths random
like the day of wandering
under city shades and shadows
from trees and buildings
where streets warm
with traffic and shoes
full of hope
and empty pockets
as buses roll heavily
and eyes stare down and
lights from windows
and corners rest
onto the few and
the without
as skies unwrap darkness
and the blankets of night
absorb me.
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