“i lost it somewhere– in the storm” he says (on good days)

jaywalking the moon

.

his nails, horned claws of a big bird,
rest on a worn bag, dirt
weaves patterns round abRupt mar-
gins, never coincidental, but foreseeably irRegular,
unWinged, the dice fall
alWays somewhere (else), &side

by side, we smell each other,
in the hot and sticky subway air,
dizzied by an angry rattling train
(still something cradle/ing in it)
his hair hiZZes with another streak of air,
flatTers//Sways &scrEEches like grey doves
around his head, wild, whirly flight,
deFenceLess, in a whiFF
from half-closed panes
“where’d you lose your– ?”

an indifferent metal voice announces
the next stop, matter of fact,
(as if we ever could be sure),

“Warschauer Strasse”

the girl’s blond dreads, a thousand nests construction,
empty plastic bottles in her bag
whisper one-more-chanceRe//Cycling melodies,
(like all of us// somedays),
doors slide, she looks never back,
striding for the bins north-east the station,
(direction into which the victory goddess…

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