Humans and Their Environments
School’s out. It is time for that feeling of wander
and wandering through the unnamable city of no
responsibilities, wobbling like a mote, like
an immortal mote with no hands, no manifest
destiny, but a clean, weightless body
with no hands, as rain descends, no hands but a heart
that sags with wet light upon the vision of people kicking
pigeons in the city of no responsibilities, kicking
pigeons with no hands, but grief, but wings, and wiping
the newsprint from under their eyes and spitting
the newsprint from under their tongues, smudged
gobs of spit dislodged amid rain and feet in light-
weight shoes, hands trust pockets, kicking pigeons
in rhythm, for a moment let us talk about love.
Love between the world and a mote, between the city
and that feeling of wander. If the people are free in the city
of no responsibilities, then why do they kick so many
pigeons, and spit newsprint-phlegm? Then they are not free?
With rain the vapor of paint and beer is washed through
ruts and fissures and into storm drains, the streets
weight my heart with wet light. White paint. Runny
I wander. Like a mote thumped by a big toe I ride the currents -
school’s out, rain remits, so please all let us waltz
around the city of no responsibilities as though
this city is a wondrous surprise! This is a rural, nomadic land,
there is no practical purpose for this grand metropolis of patterns
upon patterns, yet here it is, in the center of things, like built
arisen for the people to wander. And drink beer. And fidget.
To wobble. To sigh and not kick pigeons, to nervously
unnecessary knots in their shoelaces instead.
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