those of you who sit under the same moon
may speak the same language.
these syllables tread softly
before rending themselves upon a corner.
this poetry is liquid,
it sputters and jerks and freezes
betwixt the thick wet grass
and the webs of my fingers.
the double shadows veil it,
draw the vowels into unquiet resting.
when you breathe, the steam clouds your vision;
reminds you that you exist,
perhaps my serenity is your serenity
as the low pulse of the freeway lulls your mind,
and the green-to-grey spread before you
acts as grounding.