Feet don’t itch.
Fingers trace map edges,
nasal passages reminisce.
Names allow mouth edges to turn up,
in that fond smirk of familiarity.
Accents tasted like wine
swirled, lingered, considered—
you’ll probably find that a drop remains on your lower lip.
Your personal kaleidoscope may collide with collision, with……
The heart may scream, but the feet don’t itch.
