Poemetry

A little blip I wrote after I saw my apartment in New Orleans:

The heat of this place leaves nothing to be wished for. Ever. Hopes float like lead in air that cannot be broken with rain.
And I will not pass this way again.
Not this crack, not this bend with these shoes with this blister against this passion punch painted toe nail. Ever.
I will walk, perhaps. Or skip as I do on some morning when the trees are moving. But I will be faster, maybe, or I’ll be sick and fevered and slow.
I will pass this way again
but not this way. Not this method of motion.
I thought that I should document it, set down for posterity the way my body made its way along this way this morning.
But it’s evening now, and the way is gone, the move is gone. It floated away.