#74

Bill on the phone. A Brooklyn rain. I walk in squares and rectangles to see things. People whose names cling like sweaters, soft. The tenor and tremble of voices that pronounce them. Wear a jacket for the cold, my collar open, neck exposed. I like the light of mornings when the storms have paused. The glare through a window and my wince, thankful. Remember the heat of carried coffee in mittened hands through wind. The jut and jolt of subway carriage and all its lookers-on.

Sensations that sting or burn or flutter. Cement floors at night, cocktails with nutmeg and cinnamon sticks, the pause before doors open. Oh, to be forever in the beds of hosts, the sights at waking white and borrowed. The temporary tempting towards the future, the unfamiliar promising to remain, and remain so. Hands that skirt the skins of others. Texts I know and new once more.