My pace is the tempo of a church camp tune. I’m
okay with being overheard. From the other side of
the street, a young woman is singing fiercely. She is
conscious that she is flagrant. They won’t break her
soul. My tune is dusty rose. Hers is electric blue.
My sound is butter cream. Hers is salsa verde.
Soothing to exciting, the morning accepts the whole
