PARKDALE Light and dark rolling clouds the sky comes. The cornerstones. Latticed stones pretending to be soft. Actually they are soft. Catch skin though. Long dark shapes and then light and no shapes. Men are smoking and standing, then fighting. Fingers catching on the soft stone. The frets there. Acanthus leaves and things like rained bones out of softness. Girls are the smell and then the steel smell. The cold steel smell shadow. Rails are there, and always, and there, and smooth, water in shadows. Shaking blacknesses over my shoes. I am the shaking ground in my stomach then the streetcar smoothing. I am heavy on up in to the steel. The grey and grey and grey. The white and grey. Jumping opals leaves with steel edges, their jumping darknesses in the grey below and between bricks and under their skin. Rails are long rivers. And girls jumpy but not like leaves. Their eyes past always and in to the sky is old steel teeth sawing. It cuts the rails and the rails are double and the sky in them. Red is a hiss again and a clatter like gathering birds my stomach in the ground and rails over me. Feet carry opals and scatter them dropping. Then shiver steel in them and then rumble passes through opals and comes and goes away. My stomach goes. Bricks rounding out and high and bricks sharpening steel. Men grinding and shouting and grimacing. Mens teeth rounded raining lips spouting the rain on the drinking rails. Rumbling and cawing past my stomach. Ladies and men swish long and hiss in blasts. The rumbling stops and eats them and they go. Opals are over me. Mens dark and warm smell. I leave the opals. The feet are over me and in my stomach. My stomach rain stone acanthus. The rails over me and the cornerstones. Then leaves eat up the steel and girls and bricks and rails.
|The East Village Poetry Web