It's a soiled walk, barefoot and slower than molasses
Like the speed of a wink after shocking revelations
A country song, unmixed and unfeatured, solely played.
It's tracing fingertips across dew riddled foliage.
Swaying hips, side way chin tips, irises allowed to follow morning cobwebs.
Squinting, sometimes, from concrete puddles.
It's the smell between fresh hardcovers, surrounded by a million thoughts
and not one bothersome.
Having your whole library of music within several square inches; it's all for your enjoyment.
It's maintaining eye contact, close enough to see your crow's feet,
feeling your minty smile. Counting the contours between your teeth.
A silent warmth, acknowledged by that moment. You don't have to say a word.
Saturday, November 1, 2008