10:16 AM, Hope Street

Everything is blinding. Cars shoot spotlights
into my eyes; the concrete become marble
shines; zebra stripes. Horizontal pearls.

This is a retouched, opalescent world.
Perhaps artificial. The greens are too green
and the sky is too blue; it hurts; I wish I were
better equipped than eyes; more open.

The lines are sharp and in focus; these
crisp tree branches were sewn through
the sky, gently, by hand.

Amplification extends to heat. There’s a warmth
I feel on my shoulder unlike before. It wasn’t
there before I know, but I don’t remember what
was in its place.

Kids shrieking and birds chirping;
blending into sharp sound, only
acute.
Sound withers in the air somehow,
dulls into strange song; the car growls
push through, always. Tired signs,
begrudging.

I wonder about relative meanings, whether late
dark nights are tethered to piercing days. Tricks
of the light.

Every year I forget the stillness of warm air.
How it hovers, sways me; reminders. Now
it rests on my shoulder, exposed bright touch.

Gangly child jogs with
cinematic pace. A step
too slow to be real;
shrieking and running.
Circles and arcs.

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