Sand Creek

I felt indian sand around the Golden Hearts.

A dissonance closed the eyes. Warm.

I walk north far from the bees, and get to a place where I can be heard by thousands. Rest.

You found me defeated behind several trees, to a river and far from turmoil.

Maybe I couldn't see well or maybe the sun was strong: you seemed

white and brief (and Grand), like a ghost.

I thought the ground was vast enough

I thought the ground could bear miracles from legions poured on our clouds,

such as

warm milk

into our brains,

big and plain but I was wrong.

I thought you were the land itself.

You're in the middle and suspended, whereas I fall again.

I return, defeated, at the same time somewhat healed.

Many walks ahead.

A desert blew away the signs.

A river washed away the bees.