This and That

Lifeblood

Harpooning

The mountain that dismounts from the little bike

A woman whistles as you walk right past her in the well-lit street

Railways of streetlights vanish

In the restaurant window you catch a half-glimpse of someone you once knew

Then the rip in your favourite stained white shirt disappears

Miraculously

As if it were never there

And you begin to turn around anticipating miracles

Like scary circus clowns popping in and out of boxes

But only shadows fester around these corners.

You begin to fear words like this and that

You refuse to make conclusive statements about yourself because what if

Someone hears you and it has to be true, it has to stay that way

But now you

Walking across the street as though wrapped

Only in your second winter

Are secretly reborn

A stalk in the place you were made

An observer to your own unwinding

Lifeblood

Patches in your pants where you have had to look after yourself

Because of this and that

The two most dangerous words in the English language

And you look out for yourself and are only here because you hear

The downtown rustle and the gust of smoke

Debris constantly convalescing in your lungs

Until, full-force, you guide it back into the battlefield

Of pipes and plaster.

Who will guide you out when you are like the woman in the window

Only half-glanced

Only half-remembered

The troubled walls still tremble, they will not stop they will not be supports

Then in the meshes of

This and that

Other dramas alternately unfold, meshes and meshes of them

Battlefields of meshes

Love scatters and sullies its poor self

You know this and you love it helplessly