car tires on a slow roll down the street like patient trams. wind bites necks but also tickles the curled leaves on the road with a gentle nudging finger. milky ghosts of the rain from last night hanging in the air, blessing the town. each walking body has on an extra layer today- bare arms have grown fabric like pre-winter hide. the phantom veil adrift in the air is a hammock of town secrets. breath and breath and breath mix as misty whispers in the low-hanging sky. when you amble down the street, your body meets the fog as secrets of the air kiss you up and down, slide silent words into your ears. nobody is known, but everyone is knowing.
towns are amazing. towns make you feel like you're a part of something special, however new or long-lived you are. whether you're a passing soul whose exploring feet kick up the gravel lightly, or a tree with roots so deep and wide they weave through the undercurrent of the town. this is what i have been missing, i tell myself, a city cog who has only known how to chug along with the other ticking gears and knobs in the great steel machinery of the isle. i have been missing the slow walks, slow enough to think, to listen.
lone folk turns into mobs, twisted together by the burning twine of youth. they stampede the streets with wild calls and mating dances. then thieving night descends from the salty stars and slices through the rope, and the bodies fall away like wheat unbound, tumbling through the wind their own forlorn, silent ways; dandelion tutus pirouetting for a soft place to land.
(i'm in sweden on exchange! it's a really big change of scenery and pace of life so hopefully it inspires more happy art)
YOU ARE READING
i'll never be a poet
Poetryand here's the pretentious proof an ongoing anthology of the poetry of nobodi.
