Swagazine #4

Agent Orange by Bryant Stith

That one street

changed so much, from

the usual humid glove, the
wretched wetsuit-summer,
thirsty bandages mopping up syrup from
crisp sharp wounds blindfolds over things that never could see.

The winter,

the winter neurotically
dissolving
then re-blooming
its blinding
colorless shock,
the heaving cold,
the painful cold,
then a tease, maybe, of approaching spring, or
just a sense
of lost sleep.
That one street

hasn't moved in my head, and

I'm still on it.
There's no other street
and no other city:
I take snow with me to deserts
to sprinkle, and
haul that fly-paper atmosphere to the
cool

shifting moments

in bed
with people I've since met.
They look at me in
those moments,
sharing their senses
and secrets

While I
sit on
the curb,
holding
my own
remains.