Lines In The Concrete


I graze my tongue among the cracks on the floor like braille;

I love the jagged experience of chaos. New suns spring past

the window, pitching shadow bars across the concrete. Cards? the guards

sometimes ask, hunger in their eyes for escape. No, today the ants have moved

right here the dirt and it is changing, yes. Pavement wrinkles

like water–bugs fitting their transit to its ruptures–

and I sit–for twenty years I observe–like an alien–the light running by

in rectangles—ashes and dust and grime shifting –my mouth growing

dry behind my beard. How I breathe to understand the life that breaks

beneath my feet! And still I have no roots. And still my mind

wanders–even as these sordid sensations make me hard.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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