shoelace sprint

the shoelaces sprint into the wind
like bullets and bullet trains.

 

but I am not in Tokyo, I do not
love to love, nor
laugh at the indigen.

 

and I posit poses like a floral
dress on the wasting iris of a
mannequin.

 

while time strokes the clock
and close by,

 

there are men in suits
waiting to roar like dinosaurs.

 

and shoelaces whisper into the ears
of atoms--
race into wind.