The Transfiguration

There are those that spin a bowl out of the concrete streets
         Pull and tease the city limits, use what they find 
The parkour artist throws his body into brick
         Gothic, I see you, I fit inside you
         I work with the shining glass
         scale the fire exit like a sliding fish,
         I speak your phrases, I tangle your nuance 
         I sense when you slam your door, wordless
              but you forgive when I vault the air conditioning unit 
              and sink my solid feet into gravel 
         I feel you perk and spread, arch your back and push
         I respond to your movement
              I worship your nooks, your neglected places
              I glaze your grey space red


Another poem about your body

I reach my hand to yours and it melts there
The limbs of the city stretch into an indifferent, placid embrace
The lights scamper down Westmount
tickle the aching thighs of the city limits
Parks and graveyards spread like pools of warm milk
poured over your contours 
Museums open and children learn about dinosaurs 
from plastic
they see into dimensions, they are there
encased and safe 
It is April and the sweet salt stains race across 
your legs, streak to your feet
beneath the sewer line
where warm rivers run and connect each quiet box 
each lonely apartment

your pink, soft veins trek downtown
I massage your barrel back
the construction worker pours fresh concrete 
linesmen repair the wires that suspend our
delicate secret language 

I lean toward you like a crane easing,
the breeze from the whirring cars moves you inward
your temple finds my lips
a duck settles on a glowing lake
           ripples stretch down the stairwell

Copyright © a contemplation (Emily Jones) 2013. All rights reserved.