To be fair
it was mostly sweat. That cold, wet film
obscuring eyes drawing volumes of fallow sentiment obscuring face hands name.
But mostly, the molecules just spinning, just waiting for their chance
to enter into the dance of hello how have you been? with no regard
for what they are or are not.
And below, the streets not stone not dirt, but something
straddling each other as if they, too, had been confused.
One cannot say for certain where they now stand.
When you stand you sit you wait you breathe you walk you cease speaking you become without shadow without substance just sweat and sweat and sweat.
Where you walk you no longer walk. Where you speak
you no longer utter sounds. How does one remember how to act all the time?
And what happens
between the opening of your throat
and the sound that escapes?
As if things were no longer things, as if they no longer held their own names.
There are always questions, yes.
but scalded you cannot ask you cannot speak you cannot do
but sweat and sweat and sweat.
If a dream
and you woke upon a broken street.
And the people, weaving, walked in circles and gathered in groups and broke and became small parts of little things.
You close your eyes and imagine:
you and you upon a bridge, it is late at night
and neither of you wish to meet the other’s eye.
“Just burn them, just do it just stoke the flame higher just melt the sweat just coax the sweat just keep the flames flying”.