this city is not my garden

this city is not my garden.
stretch into me. (adapt)
winter in the tropics is as warm as a memory.
winter in the tropics is a slab of concrete at dawn.
tarmac with chalk drawings. chalk dust.
warm hands. the same run over again.
a skinned knee. steadily growing vine.
roads extend, pushing their wrists out of sleeves.
as if to compensate.

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2 responses to “this city is not my garden

  • Balzak

    Love the part that says “winter in the tropics is a slab of concrete at dawn”.
    By the way: I love the smell of asphalt as it dries right after heavy raining, it smells warm, it smells familiar and secure; it indicates that no matter how bad the storm is, there will always be a light to give us hope.

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