the glazes of ladies on the sidewalk urge me
to enjoy the sadness
of being alive.
headlights surprise me in the hyposthasis of
loving,
of being blind.
thousands of photo frames through
cvasiliquide diaphragm of the windshields.
jimmy’s voice impregnates itself with
the undecided yellow of the streetlight:
“it’s gotta be some kind of way outta here”.
my sadness got stuck in traffic.
the fog in the city has all its parking spaces
taken.