Swerve

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Swerve 

 

 

Say you’re standing at a bus stop. 

Say there’s a slight drizzle. 

Say the street is making noises like snakes. 

 

Say a tendril of your hair is sticking to your cheek like a thin black river. 

Say the storm drain at your feet is clogged with Autumn. 

Say the city is nothing but a nest of strangers.

 

Say there’s a note in your pocket written in cyrillic.

Say your heart is semi strangled in your throat.

Say the curb is like an edge of an abyss.

 

Say something’s nestled in your brain among the twisted alleys.

Say it slides along the pathways to your ears.

Say it licks the underside of your resolve.

 

Say a tiny tail pokes out from under every overcoat that passes.

Say you never hear the hiss of air brakes or the scream of a stranger.

Say you step up on the bus bound for somewhere else.

 

 

 

 

London, Winter 2013

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