The streets of this city are tough, if tired: churned by childlike appearance, the apprehension of biting storms. I will drop these gentle winds if to be caught in the fanged airs of unearthly escapes; I will drop these gentle winds and run.
Where else do you find the minotaur, windswept and inhuman—miniature if androgynous gentiles of youth—but between the airs, and the eyes, united in the burning brow of memory, mistaken magic, or mighty mistakes? I can look up, out and above these pigeon-grey of skies. Yet what has kept me wild is not insincere, nor cynicism, but bruised belongings; the same belonging that nips in longing and layers beneath my skin. The belonging that brings me back to an artful, uphill climb raw of reason, powdery grass that grew more potent promises to let die.
Why, then, am I gasping, grasping for a breath beneath the yards of fabric that fall, fly around me, feign billowy softness I once believed all cities, pigeons, incensed doves possessed? I remain agile and exhausted in these silken jaws or dreams, in the smart swell of my jaundiced past.
When the blood, or breathe, stops streaming, so too the tears, so too the storms. What I wait within is neither ice nor warm, needed nor disposable, not mine but all that I can grasp back from the past, can give again.
