deepundergroundpoetry.com
The place I can no longer be
I remember the streets I used to walk.
I remember the men;
the feeling of broken glass and hearts
collecting between my toes,
assembling in the drain;
the fullness of it,
the clogged satisfaction.
The streets I walked for three years
between mine and his or her house,
between the evening and the street lamps;
their lashings of light fell like tongues
onto the back of my neck and my wrists
like a mate healing my wounds.
Those streets, shade to the curdling heat before it
and to the summer that lurches after, towards me now,
bidding me to run.
I want to run
But the reflections in the pooling rot
beg me to slow down, beg me to stillness.
I remember the men;
the feeling of broken glass and hearts
collecting between my toes,
assembling in the drain;
the fullness of it,
the clogged satisfaction.
The streets I walked for three years
between mine and his or her house,
between the evening and the street lamps;
their lashings of light fell like tongues
onto the back of my neck and my wrists
like a mate healing my wounds.
Those streets, shade to the curdling heat before it
and to the summer that lurches after, towards me now,
bidding me to run.
I want to run
But the reflections in the pooling rot
beg me to slow down, beg me to stillness.
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