Pop. There goes the memory of baggies in couches and the smell of plastic on fire.
Pop. There goes rolled ankles on cobblestone.
Pop. There goes.
What are we all waiting for in this cafe during spring with too many scarves on the coat rack? All the stop lights work in the city, and the seat belts are brand new in every car. The sky never turns that dangerous orange black, but sets with intention that hints at a meditation practice that informs the breath.
When did the sun learn to breathe? To whisper intentions and mantras, instead of look to the constellations strung on its neck like a bear learning to make fish heads into jewelry; paws smashing into rivers on beat, jewelry flung towards gaping maws with their gills and mouths fluttering in 1/4 and 1/2 beats.
Now and then we cover the setting sun with coins or perfectly align them behind new geometries. It’s rare. But we do it.
Sometimes that coin is one you gave to me.
