this,

perhaps it's a circle.

was this the beginning?

her jacket edges fray
daily, stitches yielding like
moist earth, hand and air meeting
inside her pocket.

silver worlds fall,
fragmenting from their meeting
with the thirsty pavement;

no face raises to greet them.

umbrellas slip into being,
shields for disembodied
voices which mouth
"excuse me" but never "sorry".

spokes are knocked askew as
a fish bursts through, above
the black, suspended in the window
moving, glinting mother-of-pearl and light.

she coats herself in raindrops;
they slide,

peeling back her skin,

she curves her fingers and feels
the dirt slide beneath her nails.