You remember afternoons of warm summer rain washing the clay walls clean. Towels folded into a drawer; the lift of wings. Even the sounds of the city felt softer. A baker rolled out a carpet of dough on the table; the noodle man twisted sweet ropes that lengthened and divided between his hands. What you couldn't see, but knew. One side of the street in sunlight, the other lined with papery shadows of cut-out leaves. You've dreamed of a tree gleaming like a lighthouse, radius of white blossoms spiraling; and all your loves rising through the air, wide open, to catch them.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.