(no subject)

[claire_writes]

Only in the city,
a carousel of shadows
ebbs in and out of
the green, bulb-less
coffee shop-
The fragments of light
throw themselves
against the walls
like frantic shards
of 8 AM fiber glass-
A hanging mirror,
a few feet away
catches the day
awkwardly framing the,
people, step on and off
the circling buses,
enthused cyclists
gliding down gutters,
the edges of sweeteners
are torn at the tips by
multitudes at creamer
docks everywhere,
narrow pink bills,
nail shivers drifting down
to the poor midgets
at the fringes of shoe planets-
little wooden sticks
tie the teeth staining-
ingredients,
that move the day,
And sand falls in quiet,
unpretentious drizzles
or droplets, like baking soda-
as with it goes the precious
dreams, easily neglected
for the hasty clock-
that grow foliage
and nether of the fascinating
gum-spotted sidewalks-
the streets start to unclean themselves,
splices of sunlight
prance on the paint
and over the weathered
furniture, scabbing arm chairs-
a burlesque photosynthetic
theater, they are sharp
and sudden-
the people bury their
noses in duties and
newspapers-