Nick Van Loh

Every day there is something I'm forced to do to get around.

I force myself to see through the glass like sheets of candy rocks,
to hear the revolutions as Flanders Fields,

smell the heated air of a smoky pine sauna,

taste the rubber on my tongue and chew it like it's vanilla bean and chamomile.
The wheel crumbles in my hand like a dead dry leaf

and clings to my pants.

That's much better.