Night City

I cut off my hair.
My neck is bare and white.
I wear a sundress and sandals and move through nighttime crowds, feeling
like an eight year old - all boney-kneed and long legged,
slipping past and around in my favorite green sweater,
my feet so close to the ground, my feet so grounded.
I might as well be barefoot.
I pretend I am invisible, a grey moth, pulled from streetlight to streetlight, thumbing through yellowed books that smell like hot attics,
feeling compact and contained,
drinking coffee,
pressing my tongue against the back of my teeth,
biting the lid,
sipping night air.
My cheeks are cool, my hands are not.
My city is loud, my soul is not.