Wednesday, March 17, 2010

November

The wind whistles at me
whistles at me
whistles at me. What soul
does the gray-suit black man carry
in his skin, that makes him stop
to pace along the sidewalk, cursing
hotly, a dead squirrel sprawling
at the curb? I wonder
why I feel these shivers, why I see
vast holes of light
in sight-wide flashes. Sudden things.
The grief of a pedestrian
leg-less, at an intersection of red
and yellow lights, who couldn’t go
on but had to stop
to fling out arms and bitter cries.
The underground
beggar, who, with dripping
raw-meat eyes, holds out
his hand.

The earth beneath me
rattles, shivers, shakes; I wonder
how much weaker I must get
before I stop, to either speak
aloud or weep
aloud or
rot.