I’m walking down a howling, windswept street;
an open avenue of untamed elements,
all icy scatter and driving push, pull,
forlorn crossed glances disguised at the last second
in a rush of slapping breeze,
pulled my face straight.
I’m walking down a street, peeking past corners,
wondering where you lead.
I walk and chase,
in the sharp, swollen bites of rain
rolling down my face and
pooling at my feet.
I’m walking down a street,
mind circling and picking over pieces of you.
In the furthest reaches, in the shade from awnings
of trampled, stampeded pavements,
I inch closer and escalate straight back.
I’m walking down a street, having an emotional affair with you;
my silky, sticky, sweetened crush;
you make me cry.
You’re not a secret.
I’m stepping over city-clogged gutters and
having forays and majestic waking daydreams
with all those startling crisp images
of you and me
bundled together like twisted wires.
Using each other like immortal weeds.
I’m walking down a howling, windswept street,
where blue sky begins to play peek-a-boo
trying not to cry.
I leave myself unguarded and playing at wounds,
thinking of you again.
But walking down this street,
I know you are futile game,
a persevering sweat beneath the blankets at night.
I know you prove an attractive devil,
but these tears cool the heat, the lust.
And by being swept up in these winds with me,
maybe I’m your devil, in the end.
*Art postcard (1910) – Fred Spurgin*