Weight
February 20, 2010
make . kchoa
The narrow walkway smelled of
Oranges and spit. Feet cris-crossing
In speed.
Inside not with,
As if in it’s own entity-dictates the beginning.
Time is owned, named; not
Borrowed but birthed.
A step is made only when it leaves
The path
Following the trail of blurry lights
Above side street vendors.
Packed lunch, smoke, and rumors suspended in air.
And everything is unsure of, even
The signs leading the blind, even
More the threshold of ground under the
Weight of
Orange peels, spit, and time yet to be claimed.
Photo shot with Nokia E71
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