This
brick—this one,
right to my
right
on the
terrace
of a
Himalayan café—
this brick
reads like braille
gets tickled
by bougainvillea
and loves its
neighbors.
This brick
looks
like sand
gone solid.
It is the
face of time,
sun-chapped,
ruddy
wearing the
pocked
skin of its
youth
forever on
its aging face.
This brick smells
of cellar—
secret-scented.
It hints
of rooms beneath
streets
where roots
break through
what man has
made.
This brick
sounds
like the
wind, like centuries
of flux from every
place
earth’s been
dug down into
to pull up
clay
(shape, fire,
stack)
to build back
up.
This brick
would taste
like history
if I licked it—
savor of fog
and wind
blurring all desires
through time.
This brick feels
like solid
chalk
like it’s
flexing its muscles
like it’s
about to speak.
I wait.
The
bouganvilla
shivers
across it
saying shhhhhhh.
This brick
blows a kiss
to its cousin
in Kansas
then whispers—
Keep holding up
the crumbling world.
the crumbling world.
