There is nowhere to gowithout the deadhawking my mind’s pink maze.
The city is ruthlessly lovely, though,
with its long-lupine sky fallingupon the mountain and the sweet thrillof its waves clinging to glamor, oblivious
to what seeps into the earth, whathas sunken the laundry of the heart.
I get it. Why trouble the afternoon moon?Why waste away the waterwith a thick slice of red?
I walk through an alleywayof saliva, soured with white smiles.
A couple asks me to take their picturein front of the gum wall. Sure.
I become strange, beautiful in my whiskey skin.
Seattle carries herself passionately. So much
metal today. So many framesmoving in and out of others.
How many times has the city healedwith time and the revving green,the rotting moan of a seagull?
I walk. A friend texts [the news].
Ah, they have killed me again.
Art, in its truest form, repeats.
Outside the museum, I staticbeneath a black man as he hammers,working away. He is without a facebut sadness still lurks. A month of this:black men hammering their grief into me,
my grief becoming the rarest wine.
What can I say, the city is rimmingwith pollination. They werehere, and then I wasn’t. I confess:
I forget all their names.
It was bound to happen.Everything leaves—the sun-eaten pavement;the wet mouth of rain; the throatthat threw, It’s never enough to lovea thing, you must do the work, too; the body—
except the trees that, in this city, becomean emerald flare of handsreaching out when the winds pulse.
How many times must it be said?
There is [blood] parading the streets,I reply.
The market bricks with whirsand wears the violent churning of noiseon its lips like balm.
I drink a cup of coffee, sittingon a bench overlookingthe Sound: there is so much blue.