(Cinnamon Sticks and Frosted Lips)

Digital dictation isn't fair enough as I fumble for pencil and paper, to record fledgling breaths of anticipation and agony. Not of this time, staggering souls slide into syncopation, slipping out through tunnels and rabbit-holes. Frolic young ones, flee like the rabbit on the first frostbitten hemlock, nuzzle and kneel close to the ground for her hidden messages.

Through the forest, rear window, birds eye view. Swallowing the sleepy buildings like sugarcane-kissed strawberries. States slip by beneath in a linear involuntary manner. Power lines prophesize permanence and destination. Day blends to night tastes like cinnamon sticks and frosted lips.