I'm a few feet
under the city,
in the cemetery
of the streetcars.
Images celebrating
Stonewall convex
from projectors onto
chilled chamber
of gypsum cement.

I'm here for yoga,
an absolute beginner
with my purple mat,
taking off my shoes
and feeling the rough
floor where the
streetcars were
severed from their
electric milk.
The hour of my
longest spine
is saturated, voices
fed only to me.
My hands slip...
My bones are
symphony.

When the hour's done
I have a new face of salt.
I fold my street of
discovery and shake
the stairs. I climb out
to supermassive clouds,
I feel my shape move,
I'm grateful for you.