COMFORT

Spring onions
[ little but mighty ]
dance around in
a Friday evening pan
& press their tangy scent
through screened windows
in Queen Village.

Volvo-owning dads
mirror-shine their autos
with microfiber
cloths & load hatchbacks
with camping equipment.

I walk through it all,
like an open air museum.
Grilled burgers & Turtle Wax,
basil clippings from the window
box.

Society hill

Society Hill, Philadelphia

 

 

THE CITY IS A BEEHIVE

The city is a spillt
canister of legos
stretching out & out
etched by rivers
large enough to
accommodate
boats
impressive bridges.

Disregard the concrete.
Pay no mind to the
curdling of liquids
after it rains.
Look up to the
massive sky
where stale sounds
and stifled air
find release.

The city is a beehive
that alarms us
when we think:
“Gosh, we made this
with hands, this
hectic, full of
what-ifs
place.”

Its swarms of people
provide us with a
certain nectar,

but you’ll get sick
of the taste
if you never leave.

GROW TOO TIRED OF CONSCIOUSNESS

We yell at each other
until our throats scream.

The words (mean)
and we know it!
It is when we
reach unconsciousness:

we turn into sweet, tame little cats.

Cuddle, we mumble sweetness,
we love with honesty.

(an accidental poem by kris of ZUPAdream)

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THE FIELD BELOW

I’m sitting at the glass balcony
and the sky
is filling high tide
with copper
and lilacs.

Small kids wear blue
oversized football helmets
and run in synchronized patterns
in the field below.

Now they hold hands,
sweat caught in eyelashes
(I’m guessing).

They jump and spin
and can’t stand still.

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