Morning Walk

Drizzled down the melancholy morning streets:

gray, brisk, maintaining filthy runoff to the sea.

I stepped in puddles on my way.

I couldn’t wait for a walk sign

so I was brushed by four wheels and a tin can,

missing its century too: no blame.

Finally, my sopping, asphalt-muddied shoes

met with the sand stew, refuted the reservoir.

My eyes dotted, one each, with the morning drizzle. 

Low breezes played an Aeolian harp

between my ears and eyes: active temple.

Surely, the clouds can’t defeat the sun.

Mountains sizzling: cooled lava storms

erasing love’s flow by drowning.

“it’s not about killing myself.”  

The smoke billows inland: a warning

for the earthy ice cubes trapping moments

at superior altitudes: keep it cool.

I watch the circumventing sun

silhouette a brutish, war-torn storm;

dreams of invisible drainage set us apart.