I weave through the city.
The squirrels keep up; they understand
the urge to race in the dappled light.
A recorded voice drawls out, slow and Texan:
“The walk sign is on to cross 24th street at Lamar,”
and the woman at the crosswalk repositions her earbuds.
She runs north, and I, south– past Shoal creek looking rocky
and innocent, as if it did not flood west downtown just last year
and the year before that.
A girl’s dog pulls her to the ground straining to greet me.
“He’s excited to see you,” she pants. I understand
the urge to run toward the new and the strange.
The silvery exhale of a bus
matches the uneven pulse of
my breathing as I see my city’s skyscrapers
like a collective shout, loom over the 15th street bridge.
Living in a city is like lying eye level with the grass,
watching it grow.
[this post was brought to you by the voice memo iPhone app]
what good do you accomplish
when you allow your heart to drag you deeper?
you must let your eyes dwell on the low clouds that shine white
(unreasonable in the darkness)
reflecting city light.
you must look!
when your instinct is to hide your eyes, you must look farther.
this is the only way up.
what good does it do you
when your hiding place keeps you not only from pain but from salvation?
for there is salvation in the clouds.
there is salvation in the dwelling of the eye.