in my head after the first time at the gym in three weeks; muscle and brain sing electric
Downtown Philadelphia tilts on the axis of near-night. The sky is a symphony of dove-wings. I dip my hands into a pigeon-coloured puddle. My hands are clean. I go to a gallery in the warehouse district. The artists have made prayer flags out of textile art and paintings. As I walk beneath them, the prayers of these starving children, these soulmates, rain dirty blessings onto my head. Outside, the sky will do the same with large, star-shaped snowflakes. Once again, my hands are clean. My tongue has never been more bare.
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muse) wrote,
