Green bees
and the dust is there with them
in the air.
Is there a such thing as stillness?
If so, it's hard to find.
It's anomalous,
like moss on rolling stones,
not likely.
The feeling like
insect symphonies,
one thousand beats a measure,
smells like rubber
when it's resting
but fire says otherwise.
It won't stop.
It's a heart beat,
it's a lung,
it's the static flashing
forever
waiting behind closed eyes
and it WON'T STOP!
Smoke sighs itself into
tight spaces
from fingertips,
from the dark sides of skyscrapers,
and the city lights
hold up the sky
to give us just enough
space
to breathe underneath.
I'll think they should let go.
So that the blanket falls
surely, sweetly,
like death,
onto those shoulders
that don't remember warmth anymore;
because the city lights are cold,
and the dust in the air is never still.