Ryan Whyte

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