Bus Stop Autogenics Poem by Ben Partenay

your arms are warm and heavy.
your legs are warm and heavy.
it isn't as cold outside as it feels and
sirens aren't careening down the street
and this isn't denial.

your face is warm and quiet.
your eyes are soft and warm.
you see flames carefully play in front of you.
this is your fire, you made this.
your legs are crossed and heavy.

you feel heat but not sparks.
right now we are not starting a fire.
you are not creating anything.
you are experiencing the heat
that falls out of your hands
into your lap.

your hands are softened glass.
if you look closely enough at anything
you can see through it.
(we are also the space between electrons)
we do not fill every part of us
and we should not be expected to.

in a story you tell yourself
you set this fire, in your
eyes of melted mirrors, you
felt before you saw, this means
your heart is beating. this
means your blood is a story
you are still learning to tell yourself.

you are sitting on a bench.
you are busy with softness.
you are warm and heavy and
the coals of your thoughts
flicker in the stained glass of
your mind.

then there's wind and the
pricked skin of cold and leaves
blowing down 8th street. the bus
is pulling up and your
hands are clenching and unclenching
(butterflies trying to dry their wings)

you stand up, you cool your glass
hands in the pockets of your
winter coat. you start walking
to remind your body of warmth.
at home you know there is
wood to split for winter, the
dead pine still lying lengthwise,
full of sap.