Hush. Broomwash.

 

You have spoken too soon.

 

The color is gray.

 

An outdoor day.

 

I snort when I laugh & I’m laughing now.

 

Just as you may chortle in chorus.

 

Missing us, our pots & pans & conviction.

 

There are so many kinds of bells

 

but we know the rusted ones are the most beautiful.

 

As we step up to the music school.

 

Enroll in an intuition class.

 

No tuition. Still, this education isn’t free enough.

 

No silence & not the right kind of talking.

 

When you took my hand in the street,

 

I knew we were going to jump.

 

The riot-geared weren’t quite ready,

 

their paper suits dissolving into puddles.

 

We can finally see them

 

in our unbroken reflection.

 

 

From subTerrain #66