Back or forth The dew drops Linger A cusp of tea Giving ground wait And bend The pipe Around the corner Like a master fitter Grinding an edge Just an 8th inch But sparks fly When wheel Hits wall And crisp Like morning Autumn air Punching your nose With a cool breeze That makes you sniffle Molten mucus The gasping Self to self Echo Of muted voice As you stare Into your own face As you turn Your hips away The doorways To yourself Emerge in lines Toe to toe Our wax Drips into The same Candle pan