tongue says

tastes like

the smell

of good soil

and salt

on the warm

underside

of her bare

foot

St Charles

sun and fog magnified
on the streetcar home
floating
neutral ground thru
four lanes of sunday
morning traffic
windows up
cool condensation
steel wheels hum
electric pop
echoe ache pain

Winn-Dixie bag rides 
the breeze
engine
cracks
just cut, like that
she’s done too
short note on the floor
by the door
unsigned