POEM: Synesthesia

cool patterns radiate off the back wall
sunshine screams through the transom

i cringe at the taste of red #4,
but don’t know whether it’s red’s stench
or the bitterness of the number four

across Asia, “4” is an unlucky number —
the number of death —
but for some it tastes like citrus peel

5 thoughts on “POEM: Synesthesia

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