to measure the weight
of hollowed stones
we count the rattle
of teeth in a hungry street
of mind,
where half-bitten words
taste better
for the end never comes.
it never comes though
we walk our tongues endless,
soles held to roof of mouth
and the careful press
of quiet ash,
all to swallow movements
from the brightest shadows,
the ones that open alleyways
or close them as we depart.
slowly we build ours maps,
each crossroad and cul-de-sac
and we grow like an empty
city of poems.
Honorable mention
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