a. d. concrete

yes, there were fallen blossoms by the curb, but when walked through they became whipping little twisters of unheard, disqualified words–a whirlwind of petals, a presence in the empty bedroom reasons that it is no longer empty. this presence riots at the opera, it demonizes the private to an audience of deaf-mute swans who listen with their eyes. in the street below, cats prowl for restaurant rats while a lone young man cuts at the overgrown tendrils strangling his window. the loft has become pregnant with triplets of ideas.


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