name it cherry cloves
Nobody on the streets is sometimes what I desperately drink the city for. Now there are many floors with lamps of which I can make out the details: there’s a delicate overhead, there’s a practical wall piece, there’s a sphere on the ceiling shining on a room without furniture, shades, or hiding. There’s a lot in the back with the two characteristically abandoned basketballs. There are concrete rectangles lit by an unclear source and walls glowing tiny crimson vines. I’ve never been more awake to the vague sounds. There’s rustle and I’m excited about raccoons. Back in school they used to fight all night in the tree and I long for some impossible assignment, something that will take all night because I never looked forward to the assignment but only to the outlines. I mean what it did to me - smoking out the windows while the world goes to parties in the mountains. A man calls “alright! be productive!” I never knew what all these names were for, only what they did to me. Here’s the thick, dull rumble under the sidewalk coming back, the outlines of cars and sometimes they’re lit, and inaudible to the leaves is a covered figure gliding down the middle of the road pumping two long, thin sticks as if he were cross-country skiing on a clean Sunday.