A Walk, 01.06.11

The science of the hazy sun
is the science of the stride
is the science of the snow-clouds
flaking in a restless shush
over the streets. The harsh blue-white
of cigarette smoke streaming is
the cold dryness of my hand
brushing my face. There is so much
weight swinging in my steps, ghost
trails slicing through the sheets of crystalline
frost. I am dying for some air, solid
as it gasps into my lungs, icy and real.
There will be a moment when I
earn a moment of emptiness,
I’m sure. Shivering trees whisper
to the static sky, while time
recites to itself on my wrist. Everywhere
there are the steps of others turning
in circles like some kind of dance,
feet pointing this way then the other, moving
along. I walk a lonely line, shadow shoes
leaving a single phrase in the snow,
repeating over and over: “I am going
nowhere, going nowhere, going nowhere…”