Coloring

Nordic forms
on their own,
finest birch-cedar
lips
and travel in
pentatonic scale,

the remote sound
of rain
condensed on
the subway windows,
the smoke of continuous
fried noodles reminds me
this is reality.

As far as my
shut eyes can bring me,
as far as my
iPod can make
the crowd move
with a little heart,
that's where, that's where

mud and dew make love,
oak and sage intertwine,
sand and blood,
mohawk and bud...

and Nordic forms
on their own.