My shadow, long in the trees, casting over homes from the first world war post-era.
What memory conjures as I stare at this long shadow?
Right now, none, all I can do is appreciate the long contours
the odd middle part of my hair, poofing up towards the sky,
electric blue headphones don’t show in the shadow, nor do my teeth.
A twirl blob, indistinguishable in motion, enters the surface of each house with a few pounds of pavement.
Plop plop plop
If I knocked on your door, you would wonder what sweaty mass of wide-eyed middle hair parted would bother you at such a quiet moment, make your dog bark, interrupt a mid-afternoon snack on a day of rest.
Plop plop plop
When I make a right turn, the shadow enters back into me.
Connective Cube 
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