Suti rips a lungful of air, ya see,
discreetly spiritus (many to breathe),
And Amber risks a visit – many many – perchance to live.
I marvel, for there she is coming down the olive hill in her elegant walking way, small loft New York City shedding wallpaper and hot summer day. I envisioned her, and she called.
Even skyscrapers we stand between dip waltz undress exalt, the hang-ups stand apart and dissolve, bare shoulder in tender sonic boom more and evermore the mystery, but this time I can taste it.
We busied ourselves swallowing storms and building suspension bridges, drunk on a future in which one faithful air may forget geography within bedlam where ideas take flight on a mission between her legs.
So real her lap my head is in
A field of flowers;
I spent hours fixing on her saintly skin.
So real you feel them, too: a million tears for New York City.
The Last Great Dilemma of Closer, perhaps, or in this space apocalyptic rain-shower: the stone’s throw is in exactly one hour.
4.23.98. | Chris Weige | TX.