cracks in the pavement

some like a tongue sliding

forward to taste open sun

some from

smelling morning like pine/apple pie

or chasing an echoing crow's caw

like the softest sizzle cymbal jazz

or electronic string

and because thinking was like almost being old

young cement cheeks moisten

let steam saturate mid

-sky

cloud blind a perfect glowing halo star

gravitating psylent like unborn ears to western august

no smell nor taste

only liquid

a thought runs to the gutter

on a purposeful wrinkle.

forced innocence

stolen experience