'fille dans la ville' or scrying strange skyscrapers

from the garden on the patio of the 17th floor, she's almost sure she can feel it - the city is alive.
its breath sings up, off the street, blows back her hair, fills her lungs.
cars pump through its veins, vibrating the railing, and her hands long and slender.
somewhere behind her the sun is going down, crawling up the cooling glass of the tower is the click and hum of some street musician. she peers down at him, watching the disinterested  moving past, on.
later she's on the pavement, in movement, apart and a part of the great urban beast.
stopping and starting, beating the pathways and moving in sync with the strange physics of the street. she stands adrift of the crown fountain, in the descending dark, catching the kiss of its mist, like a vespers upon her face.
she stands there, like a rod, eyes closed amongst the maelstrom trying to feel, know the secrets she thinks are carried there in the fragile consistency of the monumental.
a stroll down michigan, others are pulling on light jackets and around her the cool off the lake clings to her like a companion. at the light at randolph a boy tells her she has beautiful eyes, she smiles because she knows it is true and leaves him there confused by the look, in the wake of her hair.
just a block north she sees something different, peering along the line of the river she sees lower wacker and realizes the city is not what she thought. growing out, off of its own bones- the city seeming lovely, is too a monster perverse. the heart is on the outside, its spine is a dead husk, and the colour and wonder is grown on its detritus, its decay. oh, there's a serenity to city lights, their looming consistency. but looking at their reflection in the chicago river, she found it all very jarring. all the towers, arias of steel and glass and cement, were undeniably absolute, resounding. but she thought then that they were not the representatives of the real city, not the secret that had propelled her eager exploration.
the wind was kicking up, and off to her right the dingy yellow noise of the bar, where her friends were waiting, wept. she knew then that the light broken and trapped in the black wake of the river was the real reflection of the city. cutting quietly through the city, bringing in and pulling out. she found it disconcerting, was alarmed and felt herself recoil from the waterline. she wondered how people managed to live in, with the presence of such a truth.
she bundled herself again the wind for the first time, and drug herself into the bar and the choral warmth of hellos and hugs. a few drinks, a few stories. a song, a dance, a hand at the waist. a distraction, a flutter. words at the balcony. as he left to get drinks she immediately forgot him, as she did all boys and in the night turned again to look on the city.
amidst the unsystematic movement, lights from the cars, the churn on the lakeshore- she could see the disk of the navy pier, the ferris wheel drawing her in. she found it instantly soothing. it illuminates. a pulse. turning at measured pace. looking on it she was able to sigh, and again believe that all was as it should be, and as it will be, forever and ever.

Saturday in Chicago

it was sunny on 18th and i had not expected it, worn jeans and boots and found myself with the premonition of sweat forming on my skin. turned then onto state street, heading north, and ducked into the shade of the buildings, enjoying the instant cool and the push of wind off the lake, some blocks off. i smelled him before i saw him, and expected to and did find him, for i had smelled that smell before, dead. he wasnt much of a man, little and worn. set in mismatched blues, sweatshirt and jeans too big and too old, eyes rolled up into his head, mouth open, bereft of breadth. i squatted next to him, put my fingers to his neck and found the absence of pulse i had anticipated.
i stood, taken aback by the vulgar indifference of the cement corner in which he filled, and the buildings so erect that they seemed too to loom over him. i thought then that street noise was a poor eulogy for a life, any life. i did not really know what to do, it was not so much a feeling of helplessness but a sort of stunted confusion. after a moment i went to my pocket for my phone, but almost simultaneously an ambulance turned the corner. the noise of it seemed so disingenuine, the wail of its care so falsetto. the emts tumbled out, within two questions they realized i had nothing to give them, when i asked who called, one kneeling turned back and over his shoulder informed me someone from the building across the street.
having nothing to add or do, i left. continuing down my path on state, turning left onto 16th, changing sides of the road to avoid the sidewalked roped off for repair. two blocks later i came upon a girl, standing as i was to join in doing, to wait for the crosswalk to become available, the light to consent.
she was very pretty i thought, wearing oversized stylish sunglasses, and black leggings that did well on her legs. i was again in the bight morning september light, and she turned to me, looked me up and down, which i caught out of the corner of my eye, and then said ever so casually.
'isn't it a beautiful day?'
i was unable to disagree, but could not bring myself to say anything.

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The girl across the aisle from me in row two was reading love letters.
Love letters, are the sort of thing you can identify with ease if you've written enough of them.
The stack of them, at least two dozen were written on matching 'Naval Training Station' letterhead, the edges stained in the devotion of frequent hands. She was a waif of a thing, or gave off the feeling of being so, something in the fragility of the way she held them. She had that careless, flawless beautiful skin that only black girls ever seem to have. Her hair sprung out, a wonderful chaotic burst of tight curls. Her playful blue sperrys seemed a quirky contrast to the plain, but ever eye catching off the shoulder brown top that exposed lithe but perfect shoulders.
There was an anxiousness about her, something I attributed at first glance to the contents or the history of her collection of letters. We waited in taxi, seats belted for take off and the letters filed in hand and her head on a swivel, she was continuously trying to look for something.
'Scared of flying?' I asked.
'Not the flying, just the taking off.'  she admitted and then shared , 'looking out the window, it sort of soothes me.' A quick look around and I could see, every shade was pulled down.
'Want to hold and squeeze my hand?' I offered, extending it into the no-man'so land of the empty aisle.
She giggled and said that she might take me up on it but I was left with the impression she wouldn't. So we sat, waiting our turn, me watching the enticing flitting movements of her anxiety and her doing her best to maintain her control.
When we rolled round the turn, picked up the first bit of pace, the cabin rattled with it's tale tell horizontal shake.
She turned suddenly to look at me, her eyes brown with rims of green and I knew instantly what she wanted and she took my hand with an endearing ferocity.
And then she smiled at me, and I knew in that moment exactly why all those love letters had been written.

'late summer 2013'

the white light. the separation of space. the canyons of down comforter and exposed skin. the tumbling laughter, the hissing water, the hours of wasted time. he was tracing shapes, spans of her flesh, drinking alone in the morning. the teeth of expectation, side step of obligation, the bar with all her friends. their quiet doubt, her vocal disappointment, the stretch and gasp of her fulfillment. her strange blue bathroom tiles, him reading marquez, her dreaming of his voice filling her house. tequila shots, weekend plots, and the maze of his silent heart- the walls translucent and carved with words. one hundred and thirty seven miles, those iron wrought chairs on the front lawn, his parade of old lovers, and the wounds he didnt watch himself make. mumford and sons in her speakers, questions she wouldnt ask him, the look on his face as she told of former fists. the song of trembling pianos, the orange streetlight blur, waking to a room strewn with the casualties of their clothes. whispers in the sand, gleam on the tiles, scent of bourbon on the winds of the tide. clothes drying on railing, beach stranded parasols, her wet hair hanging down her bare back. he is assailed by the pillows, she is putting on earrings someone else gave her, she is standing naked on the oceanview porch. she is thinking of cities, tracing out teeth marks, he knows it is their last sunset. red residue light, the howl of pianos, the raging of the brass, the symphony kungfu necktie. their procession of rocks glasses, him working the pool table, her drinking him through the bars haze. he is memorizing her constellations, of laughs and nervous ticks, of freckles and unsaid confessions. she is writing their name on hidden kitchen paper napkins, hes outside in the dusk. theres a kiss and a hand at the back, a poem written on the mirror, theres the lingering scent of his absence. he has her stranded on battered sheets, he has her laughing in the morning lull, he has her in his arms.
he has her in his arms.
he has her.  in his arms.

 he loved her
too late did he realize,
too late did she recall her heart.