(no subject)

On a heavy night,
hot face and vapourbreath,
my untied shoelaces flap behind me
and my eyelashes star up.
The rain is full
of hexagonal angels,
bright and blurry by
the streetlamps,
an infinite number dancing
on my pinstriped fedora.
Their feet are cool
on my cheeks,
glory be, glory be.

(I can't decide if I like this or not. I love "the rain is full of hexagonal angels", but I'm not so sure about the rest.)

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

I think I forgot how to breathe this afternoon. That was the tensest hockey game I remember seeing in a very, very long time.

Whew.

(no subject)

Sailing away's a dream of mine -
the soles of my feet think of planking,
the palms of my hands think of ropes,
(burning in my shoulders while I climb)
Sailing away's a dream of mine.
Alas, I have no tall ships,
and there are no clean stars at night in St. John's.
(my squalls are landlocked and full of grime)
Sailing away's a dream of mine.
My feet feel but carpet, my hands but books,
and all I hear is honking
(but there're shanties on the radio all the time).
Sailing away's a dream of mine.