poetry, Page 3

Summer cicadas— strumming golden chords

A candle’s light through the murk— the value of a doctor’s work— an outside gaze only sees the deed

One can’t miss it nor need to solicit—

Knuckles knock the door

With a soul-kite— with a glide-sprite— my kicks sing sick licks on the 606

In the morning, we skim over your history

Fear is like a lover— waking you from bed

Blossoms prowl the city with appetite and reason; hunting