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.

You could fall off the edge of the earth in this town
Just slip, one toe too deep in the soup of familiarity

And that’s it, stuck.
Your reflection elongated and distorted
Slowly rotating clockwise in a bowl of broth

A moment in time, frozen & reheated
Dripping like a Dali clock
You wish you could rewind.