pneumatology

dear bec, i walk across the city & fall in love
with everything i touch,
blown like a blanket through the windy afternoon.

there's no sense of panic to greet this emptiness any more.
i stare at advertising & kiss the images
that call me to the page
where capital makes everything all right.

what's left for those of us who don't look good in lace,
awkward in the bottom of the glass?

a retreat to pastoral, or a patchwork job on the self
with puncture kit & bicycle pump,
trying to ignore the hiss of air?

where forces open on forces
to reveal other forces behind,
the darkness lingers.

one word will follow another, ditto seconds.
stupid man, crying in the city in the dusk.

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ted@magicdog.com -- 1 June 1999