Traffic Island Time
Saturday was doused in
sweet chili oil, whispers in
ears to feed the
moaning, hungry fire.
Sunday was a citronella
candle tickled
playfully by the
welcome breeze carrying
music from a mile and half
away as the crow flies. We named
the songs we knew, talked of
mystical mathematics,
foretold endings.
How I envy crows.
It is taking us years to
travel our distance; we
have never known
a straight line.
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Love this poem, especially first stanza.