Count backward from one hundred
decrements of seven
under the railway arches you remember
a lost beau trails his fingers under your lapel
perhaps he speaks-psychic
thinks it makes you think he's profound.
"She's never very far"
he says, with a kiss and a wink.
On the other side, the city is empty.
On the pavement, a single leaf,
brown and coated with frost
But no tree from which it could have fallen.
Details are fractal, shapes and numbers play
in the curled edges, in the veins and ice.
Seventeen sparkles
as you shake the melt water from your palm.
The 17 bus arrives, the driver beckons
maybe with his eyes
maybe his smile.
In a seat near the back on the left
you curl into a ball, float and sink
as the bus trundles along a bridge
that disappears into the horizon.
Maybe it's days or weeks
minutes pass
you dream of buildings that
filter through the windows
At seven you wake
could be morning, could be evening
and you're alone in a foreign city
curled under a railway bridge
with no shoes or wallet.
decrements of seven
under the railway arches you remember
a lost beau trails his fingers under your lapel
perhaps he speaks-psychic
thinks it makes you think he's profound.
"She's never very far"
he says, with a kiss and a wink.
On the other side, the city is empty.
On the pavement, a single leaf,
brown and coated with frost
But no tree from which it could have fallen.
Details are fractal, shapes and numbers play
in the curled edges, in the veins and ice.
Seventeen sparkles
as you shake the melt water from your palm.
The 17 bus arrives, the driver beckons
maybe with his eyes
maybe his smile.
In a seat near the back on the left
you curl into a ball, float and sink
as the bus trundles along a bridge
that disappears into the horizon.
Maybe it's days or weeks
minutes pass
you dream of buildings that
filter through the windows
At seven you wake
could be morning, could be evening
and you're alone in a foreign city
curled under a railway bridge
with no shoes or wallet.