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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