This Is A Southeastern Service

I am not direct.

I am corners.

I am stops and stations.

I am too much coffee.

I am the wind biting your hands red raw and dry.

I am the silken sea,

rising, falling, warping itself into grid patterns.

I am nearly falling

off a cliff.

But not quite.

I am an aerial glinting on a roof in the sun.

The condensation on a train window

with a “no smoking” sticker.

I am the space under your seat

where your shadow

tells the person behind you

what your legs are doing.

I am the reflection in a window

which ruins a photograph.

I am the ripple on the surface of a pond

which may or may not be

made by a fish.

I am a scale on that fish.

I am not direct.

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This Is A Southeastern Service

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