when I am walking the city and not speaking

arch on, mongrel:
crotch the poles-
this city woken
stirs your mine,
your opal nature.


our amples are rotten
so I grab a snake-
the groundness
of all the right faces
blares back at me.


squinting my eyes
makes tiny dangers
that dance like wails:
there are glasses break-
ing the sidewalk.