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sixteen degrees,
paul baribeau scratching his voice in my ears, walking up an unfamiliar part of bay street
by myself, hands shoved into these pockets.
today the air smelled different, and i pretended it was cold.

i was in another city for a little while.

and my hands, they got sweaty quickly from making choking fists, like preparing for a fight, just like in seattle.
curving my back, chin to the air, singing anthems, these buildings were too tall,
as if my glasses were off, they became calmly photographic, these buildings,
gently gently gently lowering themselves on top of me.
and then i became blue and purple and red with the sun and clouds.

the street was strange, filled with strangers,
and as i paused at a street light. a bird flew next to me, i brushed my hair from my eyes.
i realized that i have no family, and i have no future, and i have been alone for a long time.
and so i imagined i was on the edge of a cliff, sitting on a thin tree branch, looking over a black wild sea,
singing a soft song, muted by the waves.