little species from which I am running, do not watch, do not listen, do not move,
do not hug me back.
in one hundred blinks I have not yet removed the pins from my eyes.
hands with red claws try to black magic my windows,
twist the locks and break their smooth skin with wrinkles
but as my head follows your slow curve and dips, folds over
I can see the moving grid, a heat wave to step inside,
I can taste where I used to be, sitting on top of my hands, fidgeting
screaming in the middle of a one lane street, for someone to notice me in the dark
floating up, over the roof tops of this elegant city to look for a room with the lights on.