The streets are a tangle we cannot out run
Like a thread sewn too deeply
We are stuck
Our feet moving
Without feeling
Without thought
We have to reach that place
That place without a name
The one that we all hunt
The bag rubs my shoulder
The skin
Already broken
Makes my coat wet
Another black stain
On another black stain
I must be black inside
I think
don’t think don’t think
I carry what we need
Powder
Dust
Treasure
And dirt
As we move I pick up glass
Add it to the bag
I tend it in a way that I cannot tend myself
Held in hand
Washed in puddles
As if anything can be clean
As if it matters
Why make this longer
don’t think don’t think
Glass and powder
That’s what we need
The powder wrapped in food bags
Dried out on the glass
Kept in the shade
So as not to taint
As if anything can be untainted
A sweet minute
A sweet minute where the powder cakes the glass like toffee
apple
Crunch
A sweet minute
Which untangles the streets
Pulls out the thread
Softens our feet
Brings us to that place
The one that we all hunt.
