during some tailspin turnaround

i kick rocks and skin cells,

pushing dust upwards and nothing out

the stain sticks to my skin

my every sigh is marble cracking,

or a sugarcube crumbling apart

i let the residue melt between my teeth

i have this street to myself:

in some faint faraway window, 

a cigarette siphons color from your lips

somewhere in the distance,

two birds kiss

poem 24.6.1