Tuesday, December 16, 2008

blind

At the 96th street entrance there is a
a cab – honk! – as I cross the road.
Mist settles on my coat,
and the cold air screams down my throat
to burn my lungs.
On the bridge my boots echo
strangely through the hollows underneath. Your hand on my back
steers me over the crunching gravel path
toward the reservoir. Stretching my hands before me,
my fingers brush the iron bars of the fence.
My ring – clink – my hands wrapping around.
Your voice a waterfall of sound:
our words leave our mouths in
ghosty rivers, flowing through the air around us.
I raise my arms,
feeling your stubble under my palms.
By the belt at my waist you pull me until
we meet down the middle through our coats.

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