under the skyscrapers. under the towering silvers
you forgot what it’s like to run in the grass. under their shadows you breathed
the shallow air. cried for the money that danced away.
down the street. in dirty hands. in hands that had stolen. in hands
that had not touched food in months.
everything you wish you could have tasted
is wasted away to nothing. the dust of the streets
waits under your feet. waits to be stirred again. waits for you
to walk. but still you stand in the gutter and stare down
into your swollen cobwebbed heart. the gray thing.
the dead thing. the rotten scalping mirage of a thing
that you hate. have always had a seed of hate for.