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It rides low in my chest,
my heart which dreams
of bonding and does not feel the bird lifted above grasses.
It burns
my hands, which sting
with no sensation of skin on skin; they are not yet held.
It runs, my mind;
my mind in loops
replays scenes
of moments not yet lived.
In the room in which I sit
with cold
riding through my skin
heat does not pass through dust covered vents to hold me with comfort.
It whispers in my ears
words, breath
teasing, brushing beyond,
heard but not yet recognized.
One room down the green floral papered hall she too knows the vacancy.
He sleeps on ripped bed sheets in a room too small in which to breathe; he knows the missing space.
He traveling by rail, reads the news on glass and metal reflections as lights flash by at dance club speed; he senses what builds the blurred view.
The boy, feet bare, with calloused soles selling painted plates to any taker, does not feel the roadway crack yet knows of the heat.
She who tends to fig and ficus, tulip and thyme, she cannot breathe the fragrance. She continues.
Lift the window’s glass, inhale,
soften roughness with shoes which protect.
Slow the train and see soft stillness of anxious travelers’ worn overcoats as they wait to board.
Unlatch the window and expand your space beyond four walls.
Feel the warmth as you touch the hand that lay next to yours.
beside you
next to me
Mary Jane's Shoes 