Visiting is (either) gasping or just saying
fuck time and showing your teeth.
My smile’s just a breathing pattern.
The smoke is just the air, a contradiction.
The city’s spirit is a murky marble,
a callused pearl extracted from something fleshier.
It’s in the linoleum, it’s in the ferry terminal.
It’s in the grease of the barmaid’s hair.
And you in your hat, calling a cab.
And you in your hat, on loving loop.
And you against the water as it shows itself
more blue than any shame.