Involucre

Involucre 6/3

The bench is uneven beneath me
The night is misty – everything smells cold

I pull my vest around me and look
to the faces of the people walking

It is late at night and New York is going home

Eyes don’t contact – it’s an unspoken rule
the second you connect there are needs to fill

The color of streetlights is the color of cantaloupe
and I want to pass it among the bodies of Brooklyn

I count the bones on the sidewalk at my feet

I feel the boundaries of my body heat
this is a suitcase – I carry the daylight with me

And pass it off as deep love
the buttons on the case is heart-shaped

I walk the stairs to my apartment and slide into dark