meeting on the corner

so taken by the writing—a paragraph about street names that had to be read aloud—held in the throat—the mouth—and then spilled out in the empty silence of this room—where there is only me and an unmade bed—
that i left the house
to walk
with these thoughts about the succession of numbers where i’ve taken residence
avenues and bird’s wings
the names of trees—white against green on metal glinting against the grey sky—the soft sun—predictably they came at each intersection
realize, suddenly lost, that i was walking the path to you
in a city with the wrong name, the wrong sky, the wrong signs on every corner
crawl the slow way back
thinking about all the times i’ve ever tried with desperation not to fall right off the precipice—how often i’ve used the phrase—until these faulty edges gave way
and the ground went, all suddenly, limitless
and there was no where left to fall