Wall of Sound

all the sounds are snowflakes
melting on the tip of my tongue,
chilling my innards,
rattling my bones underneath
the Canadian skyline:
for a while i was on Venice Beach
then strolled down Bourbon St.
in Memphis—hoped over to Sweden
for a nip of cocoa and ended up in London
with a spot of tea while staring at my shoes;
went to Glasgow to kiss the smoke stacks
all while waiting to go to Ypsilanti
for another show—another storm.

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