Blowing through the cracks, if silence were sound—perpetual echoes of...
Cup rattles on a polished veneer... and you question summer leaves their origin
- - - ssshhhhh - - -
Happened upon the sky’s old pattern; somehow it's unspooling
Cloud banks rolled by, carrying childhood snippets of dialogue
- - - ssshhhhh - - -
Radio waves of salted youth weaving — night’s form forever shifted.