I pressed my soles against your rosy bricks
and felt my bones familiar to your kitsch.
I loved it anyway: the houses that
lined up like ducklings in bowties peach-and-
lemon, dumb to the pretense of their ton.
And while this ingrate-grey estate went on
with his tired litanies, my eyes drifted
somewhere searching past the weight of the wind -
what more deceits do I fit into my
pockets and bring home? I cupped a palmful
of air and sealed it inside a coat pocket;
one hand freed to take snaps of a daydream.
These hands will warm soon enough and these bones
will stop aching, these eyes will stop searching.