London Poem: Day 21

7 September

…One foot reaches, toes grip feverishly,
Wind whipping long ways,
To quell the simplicity of becoming accustomed.
Why must rhythms beat manic?
Breaking and swirling, wild and destructive
Or soft and quiet–
It all revolves around and intersects,
No different that what one calls foreign.
Smoke still curls out of chimneys on cold nights
And the sound of barking dogs echo back,
On crisp, cold nights.
There are varying degrees of difference,
But one fact remains:
Anxiety still erupts in easy, measured strides.

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In flux

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