anniversary of the loosing and looting, the wings of God, the mane of morning

[burnunit]

Before the dawn there is cool air in the city and the winter feels just like that dark for the summer and that makes spring the dawn I huddled into the bus in winter and stepped into the bright day of summer all in all a rush like the sound of grasshoppers bursting out of the weeds en masse, like the sound of God flying into the world I moved into the warm diesel embrace of the middling time before sunrise and dreamed drowsily of snow turning to ice, rivers turning to falls, asphalt turning to water: all things turning all things quicksilver and spectral. My limbs shot through with pains I imagined the future as a thing lined hard upon the road, the cracks in pavement. I dreamed the future like a woman's body pressed against mine, mine against cold stone, the night slipping away from us like God's own dovewings and the whole onrush of morning pressing onto us just as hard as our mouths one against the other. I couldn't make out the voices in the dark behind me over the roar of the city streets, even at this early hour. The headlights punctured my brain like darts. O if only I could take you I wanted to whisper in her ears take you to the place of the fields, the bright ethereal blue of the flowers, a color that barely touched the petals themselves but hovered above it and the scent of things was all wet leaves, unbruised flesh, warm coffee. Hidden there, across the distant field, you can just make out the yellow eyes of tigers and we want them for our own want them for our jewelry boxes and to stare into as morning fades to noon and the heat of the day waves above us, naked and hungry at the edge of the world