I am drunk like a glass of water, empty as a null set. My mouth is
as dry as English wit; my tongue is like a hand caught in a closing
door. Stolen heat melts me; owned winds make ice in my pockets. This
is not the way it was meant to be.
Let me explain to you something. She was to be here, she promised.
I await succour. I await, sucker. As evening draws on I am in mourning.
I raise my wrist, watch, as the time circles, spirals, forming a cone
as it recedes. An ice sickle, it reaps me. Only words do not fail
me, but they pass me and I am standing still. On this corner, brick
vertex checking my back, I stand, stalk, still in the tentacles of
ice, the squamous winter squall. She has made this. If only she could
make it here.
The wind offers me no quarter, but I give eight bits to the crepitant
shreds of tape and lint careening with exsiccated cup. Go on, go on.
I am emptier than you are, ants crawl up my tongue and down my throat,
and the queen rests in my amygdala. Eight-sixteen and thirty-two seconds.
Three, four, five. This mirror sidewalk shows only my sole. She said
she would arrive!
Taxis dance by, salting the uppers and tibias. I whirl at every
step, every sidling shadow that is routed to this spot as I stand
entwined in blue vines of Thulean air. Loss is my only comfort and
all that I can hope for and expect. Eight, my pride was swallowed;
by a score past I know she has won though she does not have to. This
is all: I can stand, no more. Until I have spied her, in silk, weaving
her way down the glittering strand, I am left hanging, consumed from
within by murmuring echoes.