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The Thin man strolls |
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on his long femurs. |
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I’m writing this down |
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all in black ink, his color. |
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A sword is sheathed |
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in the outdated overcoat |
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hung across one forearm. |
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He looks so much in peace now, |
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contentment unpacked by the hour. |
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The city, in heat at noon time, |
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this stranger of a summer |
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has finally spawned colors. |
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A girl swaggeres by |
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in orchid blooms and rice paper, |
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and his eyes scamperd |
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to her sandaled brown feet. |
|
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This is the perfect weather |
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for “All Apologies”. |
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The ancient’s bones slowly |
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warm up from the inside. |
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All smells are out: the sewer, |
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the cart for roasted peanuts, |
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aqua sea foam and lotus |
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from anonymous human bodies. |
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|
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I’ve arrived. I started from |
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7 AM, and the guy squatting there |
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with a cell on his belt is taking a smoke break |
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before he returns to the window displays |
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to finish dressing up the circus for Bloomingdale. |
|
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That curve, that wee curve |
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on the corners of your mouth |
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is smile in a rose drinkable. |
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But worry not, to you I’m |
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not a friend, just a symbol. |
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There is nothing to be afraid of, |
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the old man says. |
|
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Surely someone has paused here, |
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the spot where I’m standing, |
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someone here, with a scowl maybe, |
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to watch the thin man on his way |
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to get a cup of coffee. |
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He is safe now, his past |
|
speed away on a pale horse |
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before the sun ever rose |
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to make this a really hot day. |
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