The morning traffic swells in slow motion like the heart
and as you approach the tunnel you see it:
a cloud slowly passes by over the sun —
outlining the crystalline see-through edges and crimson, or bronze or chanterelle, or colors that you have no words for
this should frustrate you, but it only makes you want to write it more, and you watch in silence as chemicals are tracing the sky.
And traffic approaches the tunnel and you think do they see it too?
with a smile on your face its all so clear to you,
slogging through the tunnel, you realize that you are lost —
cocooning yourself in language, wrapped tenderly and bitterly in lexicon.
— you’re gone.
And you emerge from the tunnel only to realize the sun hangs in the sky —alone. The cloud is gone and with it the beauty you mistook the world to be. But still
you look into their cars and they talk on their phone, or they gaze in def cycles with blind eyes, and you realize they’ve missed it.