Untitled #26

I'd like to go back to paper

route days

Quiet dawns of squeaking

tires.

The roads move you and the

streets cautiously move to

hold you.

The headlines smudge into your fingers

and the news wears off.

Soft feet point,

in soft padded kisses to the pavement.

Kicking rocks, they slide,

a bird sings from the heart,

startles you,

you swerve

and dew drops break your fall