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at the corner
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At the Corner
Steam lifts from a grate,
curling into the fog
like a hand that almost
touches mine.
The pavement trills
with the slow ache of feet
that have nowhere to arrive.
A cough, a muttered name,
the shuffle of a blanket
pulled tighter.
From the next street over,
a burst of glass laughter —
high, brittle,
carried on the same air
that smells of wet wool
and diesel.
Music threads through,
a waltz maybe,
or something meant to sound
like joy.
It slips between the bricks,
finds my ear,
and for a moment
I can’t tell
if it’s invitation
or reminder.
I stand where the two currents
meet and churn —
one warm, one raw —
and feel the season
change in my bones
without the sky
needing to say a word.
unbiased coherence, the
unbiased coherence, the paramount goal, as blessings of poetry pass me by, sullen stripey hair, unkempt, calm and clad in cozy clothes
peace, pot, tequila shot
Jesus loves us, stoned or not
And there we are, part of the
And there we are, part of the fog’s own handwriting — hair like a weather front, clothes like a hearth, steady enough to let the street’s two currents braid themselves without our hands on the rope.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver