Weeks away
from Spring, late afternoon is lighter
than it used
to be: turns dusk as if the atmosphere through which it has to suffer weren’t there –
the air, a brittle edge, a frigid slice of thinning Winter
cuts the skin
– and suddenly I know this city
saves my
life. Spirits in me softly climb and tumble –seizing and releasing. The storm will soon arrive.
My city! – oh my city, oh my city! – is alive.
.
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