city air

Your hair twists against 
the milky sun of a high window 
like the newborn snakes 
of a wild eyed farmer. 
or this is how it seems 

to me, one who can never 
move from the pulpit 
can never be fresh enough 
to rise and catch you 

your face moves in 
wrinkled transits of shadow 
each time you lean closer 
the shade thickens 

and I know what you’re thinking