Crawling earthquakes are born of a thousand
whispered truths. Picking out crimson apricots,
bruising soft stones with my thumb.
Walking down stiff concrete streets
peeking around corners, wondering if a impish wind
has curved my words. If anyone can hear a daring
breath, humming lyrics never to be shared. I practice
singing in an empty parking lot—there is a dandelion
gathering his friends. I practice driving through
the same cracked road you first showed me. I practice
circling the roundabout and I keep
practicing.