cxi.

it happened sometime in the spring,
sitting on the edge
of history, watching the light stream
through the glass

alone, at a table in the entryway

the air swirling, cold
and bright
through the sliding doors

caffeine is a poor substitute
for freedom,

warmth is held inside
it bleeds easily across the tile

outside, the street is breaking, and
the buildings bend,
flaps blowing on their hollow sides

in two days, heedless storm-water
will take them down to muck,
and melt-water will carry
the verge down into the gutter

the world is always breaking itself,
and running together,
but this time it's broken open,

jagged edges listing in the grass,
catch the hard light

who knows what else is breaking,
over the rise?

--to cold air carries the green scent
of the undergrowth,

scattered bird-song, creaking traffic,
the occasional crack of cement
giving way--

faraway, there is something
worth having,
across the threshold,

the blinding daylight--it's empty, it's nothing,
farther than fear, or hope
--but held in the shape of your hands,

in the crack of your footfalls
--breaking, shattering, reaching
the arc of your stride

is the first gasp of an unknown
promise