Person’s geography: the permanence of its forming shaping molding us into a collective force into ourselves
I run and I run and I run from the city’s spokes, but the wheels follow me with tattooed tracks so red on my skin burned down buildings
make their still-crumbling halos on the inside of my eyelids
The smell burning sewer steam underground rising up sound of no one and nothing at noon in downtown but for the few being watched by the many
with distrust and a craving hate
. . .
where we lived heads as attics, forehead wrinkles as slats of board where we did not live bodies as tudors, blue window shutters as eyes what color we are not doors painted purple
what urban photographs we put on the wall in a nearby cafe... They are less discrete about these secrets of the dead:
a red bicycle waiting leaning against the building
. . .
I run and I run and I run and I run and I
. . .
Where will the many ants go in their many hidden dwellings when the outside moves in like cockroaches staking a claim in the bathroom?