My walking soul,

borne on the blood leather

of my shoes,

scratches its skin

on the red uneven bricks

below my curious walking.


The aroma of gardenias melts from trees

like icing on warm days running

thick and sweetly;

crooked fingered branches above

reach stiff like the dead.


A snappy stringed guitar speaks

a singing story with the voice

of a man whose hands

work the music.


Sunrise catches me walking about

in the company of humid air,

holding me tightly in a fat warmth

at Jackson Square.




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