LOU SWEIGMAN
Another arctic season
In my blood
Brushed from the heart
Flakes fall
Filling in your tracks
I see couples
Sheltered in each other
Give cover against weather
The wind plays sorcerer
Conjurer of us
Winter seeps through cell walls
Across the blur of squalls your face
Appears to vanish
To appear again
Conditions become hazardous
Wind chill factors must be figured
The danger of becoming stranded
Solitude must be well planned
I rest my eyes against the storm
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Street stained kids
Cat tail quick and
Alley wise
Flick indifference
From the winking tips of Winstons
Breath clouds hang like wordless
Comic strip balloons
Seen from certain angles
Their bodies form a leather question
Already answered
With a shrug
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Passion splashes windows
In urgent shades of neon
The highway as canvas
The motel as art
And the patrons
Draw the curtains
And invest
In one another
Framed by vague intentions
The impressions of the heart
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In the scheme of things
Where intent resides
With memory
And values are
Listed but not lived
The people - we
Collect ourselves
And try
To keep the machinery running
In the marketplace
A thousand dark eyed Marias
With earrings and scarves
Carry bargains in their hearts
Calluses form in foreign ports
In the marketplace
Rotting fruit and fresh desperation
Compete for finite space
Economies stall
And governments fall
Over less than they ever believed
A thousand dark eyed Marias go gray
One slow and dangerous day at a time
A thousand dark eyed Marias grow heavy
From the wait
In the scheme of things
Where babies grow
On cold formula
If at all
A thousand dark eyed Marias
Carry secrets beneath scarves
And curses beneath skirts
In the scheme of things
In the marketplace
In the marketplace
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The black grey day of all
In the street puddles form
A man, I hear him, is muttering
The water stains my face
Plenty of
"I'll be home by dinner"
Talk walks past me
No one hold my eyes
All these people seem
Important to be going
Somewhere putting pots on
Or cradling a crying child
Inside warmer rooms
They'll maybe shake the day out
Unfold their molding paper
Uncross their morning lists
I have warm rooms myself
I can walk out of this mood
But my shirt begins to cling
Skin's damp shudder on the street
I cannot get my feet to move me
These people rapid
Wanting to be dry they
Do the job quite well
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What your mouth wanted
What my flesh offered
What the jungle that we tended
Kept hidden
From an indifferent world
Tribal rites
The ritual of consummation
Bridal and unbridled both
Even we did not suspect
The power of the this hunger
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Stampede shakes among the silver clatter
The 24 open hours hits its stride
Every lady on her feet is
Really moving
They will be tired later going home
Tasting the weary flavor
Of their bones
The eaters want to talk
I just want to walk out
Called back to the falling streets
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Copyright © 1996 by Lou Sweigman
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