Routes

The air is alive here
with a greater degree
of tension and fizz,
and its layers, and me.

The people here are
far more askew and
more urgent in the
heat and the rolling, green hue.

A fly-swatting paper,
a rolled up pulp rag,
a bag full of cans
and a tightly wound tag.

There’s a madness in the wind;
we cut a course in its name
and the sirens explain when they cry in the snow and the rain.

Disrobe and be tribal,
hold chaos in stares
at a handful of paces
on crusting, red chairs.

When the hissing is over
and the leaning’s complete,
we smile and part ways:
the severance complete.

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