Friend, the stranger you are— your footprints, awakened by snow, tracking the distance you’ve covered. I advance, towards that still sleepy distance. Knowing little but what kind of shoes you’re wearing, I am working towards you. The wind is blowing; there is something I want to say. In fact it is this question I have. I’m an impatient person, so I’ll just shout it out. So loud it becomes a mass of air over the landscape, that finds you: Have you felt it? You and me, moving our feet every step of our way?
It comes out, too frilly
at first, adheres
to the smallest
shape of itself:
fisheyed dots of spray
held in the light of—
but they burst
& convalesce
in the parabola
of the fountain arc,
towards the charms of motion,
towards agitation, towards
attraction & what is looked
for there, that comes only a faint tinnitus
I lend my ear to.
Brady Jones is a poet living in Philadelphia.
