Foreign Street

by Steven Clifford

The sublime clings to our jaws, teeth grinding.
 Stride.

  Stride.

Serene structures, engrossed in
delicate towers,

sheening,
 the tranquil stepping stones—narrowing

into the washy brush. My mouth

turns inside out,
 the tongue

swatting city flies

for nourishment, the joy of perching on guts.

The bare streetlamp—radiates a womb,

the gravel boiling milk.
The sour
the sour, in the cross walk
charm. dee da

dee dee

da. And the traveler picks at threadbare.
“I’ve been here before”.

 Stride.

 Stride.