If you’re still you can hear it
whistle on the wind,
pat on the doorframe, and
make the concrete resonate.
The turquoise terracotta
wears cracks of rattled decades;
sprouting leaves and flailing
serenades to a sun that skirts the roofs.
There’s something whispering
beneath our causeway in urgent,
slapping, caustic tones;
oh my knees it creeps right through me,
bludgeoning and fibrous.
When the soft, bombastic music
stutters to water growling down the drain,
I’m mortified that this
will never be the same.