Touching down, the water,
in the street, it comes up
where the curb comes down and
seeps into a shoe
where the soul meets the mesh.
Rain for days and touching down
one step at a time.
Cold in broad daylight.
Walking down
to where the water comes up
whispering to the docks.
Landing footsteps
like 12th round blows,
blood slow and nerves slower, drinking
in the sun to fight
the shakes of the land below.
Everything smells like fire.
Like everything is
gone through the blaze and
come out too hot to taste with eyes and
too clear to be more than a dream.
Touching down, the water
comes up and steps on a heel
with a metal clad boot's toe,
but there is still so much time, so much cement,
so much weather yet to come between here and home.
original works of parts
