Two Second Street

Swelling with irritation

That pains my knuckles

And that soft spot

Behind the knee,

I look at candles burning

In the dimming light

Of a setting sun

Behind rain-spent clouds.

Earlier, when the candles

Were slightly taller

Than they are now,

They told me to speak

Without knowing

What exactly to say.

The muted whispers

And moistened exhales

That taste of milk tea

Boiled on a warm

Sunny day and hot

Balmy night,

But now escapes

On windy, chilled gales.

I breathe the sweet grass

And patches of dried earth

Not yet quenched by

Sporadic showers from above,

But it transforms

Into half-hearted mutters

And exaggerated gestures.

The phone plays

A haunting eight bit waltz

Ringing for hours,

Not yet answered

Because its owner is

Threshing weeds in her

Checkered garden

Of vegetables and seeds

Yet unborn.

Learning from drowning myself

Into the vastness of this

Cracked, speckled ocean


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