There’s an element

of searching


a strong unwritten



reminders of miracles

wasted in an alley

or a hallway

without lights

where vapors

dribble out confessions


like the street artist

with a crooked crescent


chalking his drawings

providing them

with a soul

and eyes that follow


and a woman

silent like daffodils

staring stiffly

into her uplifted palms

hoping for a message

on how not to be










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