Yes, I mean the side where I sleep.  
Or think I sleep.  
The sleep could be dream.  
The drift.  
The doors.  
The talk.  
Yes, the skin—not the same.  

And the signs like big confetti chunks not falling, grafted
to rooftops and storefronts, telling this avenue walker
with vowels coupled to consonants and not said the same
about business they’ve got, or had got but lost.  Yes,

not the same.  I can see it, you know, by the blanks
behind windows.  The padlocks.  The chains.  Yes,
it was different, or I was.

There’s the tiny man.  Still very old.  
His coat has not always been his.  
The shoulders come near to his elbows, cuffs rolled.  
He’s got a way of moving his feet.  They stay
in a V.  
One leg
moving
an inch.  
Then
the other.  
Heels never quite parted.  
Usually I don’t so much see him move
as hear his soles brush along.  
And his forearm always at a right angle.  
Straight out.  
A white cup
like a cane
feeling for
something
that gives.  

And there’s Christina’s.  
She asks about my ears.  
Yes, the studs are fine.  
The lobes less sore.  
I will buy more.  
Next time.  Then

Luis, the bank guard.  
Why should he show me his wallet with his three-year old daughter?  
His wife?  
His son?  
They need.  
Do I know anyone with little girl things.  
Little shoes.  
Little coats.  
Little ribbons.  
Small socks.  

Every third door
is nailed shut.  
I watch my step.  
Why did they use plastic covers over sidewalk entries to in-ground utilities?  
Usually missing.  Ankle breakers.  

There’s the child selling Chiclets.  
The blond dog with red muscle exposed on her haunch.  
Two toes hanging loose.  

The empty white carriage.  
The despondent horse.  
Steam rising
off chicken parts
in a bowl
near an unpaned window.  
The tiny man.  

No one stops me.  
I know the way.  
The side to walk.  
The best access to the sand.  
The powdery give.  
How the calves ache
moving toward where
the tide’s been.  
Bottle caps.  
Pelicans.  
Blue air.  
Hair ruffed by the rush of it.  
I will dream better signs tonight.

South, down the shore.  
Still August.  
Still light.  
Vendors absent, almost.  
The pier is a right-angle arm reaching out.  
White caps feeling for something solid.  
They wrap around.  They wash through.  
Tatter.  
What would one peso have mattered?  
A pair of small socks?  
I could be chewing gum.  
Or someone else could.  

The tracker smoothing the beach left wide tracks.  
Between them sandpipers' V tracks in crisscrossing ways.  
Human prints show
another has been here.  
After the tractor’s erasure.  
After the birds.  
Before the tide.  
I look back.  

Yes, I mean the side where I sleep.  
The conscious side closed.  
Nailed shut.  
A frozen confetti of signs.  

No, I did not make a difference.  
Not today.  
Not in the design.

This poem in prose format is posted in Prose; I wondered what line breaks would do, so tried the above.

Lynn,
I didn't want this write to end ..
will return to read it again ~
superb ~

Stella

I don't know about the prose, yet, but this is magic, Lynn. I've read a lot of your writing, and for the first time, in this one modest line - "Hair ruffed by the rush of it" - I actually physically see and feel you and what it feels like, physically, to be you.  -Tom

Lynn I've read both and the flow is magnificent. The observations are full of the narrator's touch, N's adoration of place is palpable.

As I think about the flow and line breaks, I might suggest differences, but must chalk that up to one's ear and the tendency to use line breaks for emphasis of cadence. I think as a prose piece I would not cut, but as a poem, I might try and define my lines. If for no other reason than to accelerate the images, marry them to the sound. Not sure this is much help. You could do nothing and it will remain an extraordinary piece.

larry

Larry, I would love to see what those suggested line breaks might be.  This work has come as something of a stutter, chopped images of moments.  There are a few places I'm considering slight changes in breaks.  Thought I'd give it a day, read under a different sun.

Tom, what to say? 

And Stella.  You break my heart with your kindness.

Thanks all.

ld

hmm.  made several tries at line break changes.  original is below.  thoughts?

[original post]
Yes, I mean the side where I sleep.
Or think I sleep.
The sleep could be dream.
The drift.
The doors.
The talk.
Yes, the skin—not the same.

And the signs like big confetti chunks not falling, grafted
to rooftops and storefronts, telling this avenue walker
with vowels coupled to consonants and not said the same
about business they’ve got, or had got but lost.  Yes,

not the same.
I can see it,
you know,
by the blanks
behind windows.
The padlocks.
The chains.
Yes, it was
different,
or I was.

There’s the tiny man.
Still very old.
His coat has not always been his.
The shoulders come near
to his elbows, cuffs rolled.
He’s got
a way
of moving
his feet.
They stay in a V.
One leg of it moving
an inch.
The other
one then.
Heels never seem quite parted.
Usually I don’t so much see him
move as hear his soles brush along.
And his forearm
always at a right
angle.  Straight
out.  A white cup
like a cane
feeling for something
that gives.   

And there’s Christina’s.
She asks about my ears.
Yes, the studs are fine.
The lobes less sore.
I will buy more.
Next time.  Then

Luis, the bank guard.
Why should he show me his wallet with his three-year old daughter?
His wife?
His son?
They need.
Do I know anyone with little girl things.
Little shoes.
Little coats.
Little ribbons.
Small socks.

Every third door
is nailed shut.
I watch my step.
Why did they use plastic covers over sidewalk entries to in-ground utilities?
Usually missing.
Ankle breakers.

There’s the child selling Chicklets.
The blond dog with red muscle exposed on her haunch.
Two toes hanging loose.

The empty white carriage.
The despondent horse.
Steam rising
off chicken parts
in a bowl
near an unpaned window.
The tiny man.

No one stops me.
I know the way.
The side to walk.
The best access to the sand.
The powdery give.
How the calves ache
moving toward where
the tide’s been.
Bottle caps.
Pelicans.
Blue air.
Hair ruffed by the rush of it.
I will dream better signs tonight.

South, down the shore.
Still August.
Still light.
Vendors absent, almost.
The pier is a right-angle
arm reaching out.
White caps feeling for
something solid.
They wrap around.
They wash through.
Tatter.
What would one peso have mattered?
A pair of small socks?
I could be chewing gum.
Or someone else could.

The tracker that smooths the beach has left wide tracks.
Between them
sandpipers have left V tracks
in crisscrossing ways.
Human prints show
another has been here.
After the tractor’s erasure.
After the birds.
Before the tide.
I look back.

Yes, I mean the side where I sleep.
The conscious side closed.
Nailed shut.
A frozen confetti of signs.

No, I did not make a difference.
Not today.
Not in the design.

Still reads great, Lynn. Typo here tho?--if not typo, it takes me out of read:

Heels neverquite parted.

While I have magnifying glass, out "chicklet" is young chick, "chiclet" (from "chicle") is gum.

Now let me put that away, and pick this very strong poem. Tom

you know, i googled the gum because i knew something wasn't right -- but the link that came up had the k in it and i stopped looking.  thanks for the catch!  fixed it.  and the typo.  thanks for that catch, too.

And also for thinking enough of this one to move it up.  Much appreciated. 

lynn

dear Lynn

as Stella has already placed such remark
there is then not much more to add
than an other pair of hands
clapping.

and on the by ..........your statement of

This work has come as something of a stutter, chopped images of moments.

has a nice ring to it and my ear would not mind at all if it popped up somewhere in one of your future poems.


smiles
silent lotus

Smiles back at you, SL.  Thanks!  And you never know about that stuttered line. 

ld