Nieve

He terminado desde-

(de manera disonante o de

alguna u otra manera,

donde la tierra era cálida y blanca

y leche tibia caía entre las grietas;

desde las nubes y de manera magnífica

pero hacia la arena,

sobre legiones)
-el momento en que el Águila

se alimentó del corazón del río,

hacia el desierto,

entre las dunas,

en el año del Tigre.

Quise olvidar todo,

desde el comienzo y a través del siglo,

en el despertar de lo que se percibe

entre la fragilidad de la rosa

o del pétalo (exhausto? distante)

que cae 

con seguridad

hacia Primavera.

Nieve blanca.

La noche es olvidada y he terminado desde 

el momento 

en que el Águila 

se alimentó

del corazón del río.

(desciende)

Nadie lo sabe.

Algunas flores

(supuestamente)

viven para siempre.

Nadie lo sabe.

Terminé distante, 

en el valle que derrama aceite y néctar.

Distante.

Nadie tenía ojos tan cálidos,
ni siquiera el universo,
o el multiverso cercano.

Prayer In The Sun

I am naive when facing the sun.

I lay down

and I pour the ocean(whole)

into a hole in the sand.

I know the wind is blowing but

happiness is beyond missing.

Please, leave and make things easier.

Leave, don't do it for the sake of the blues but

do it for yourself

or myself selfless gone and lost and buried and left astray empty-handed

heavy-handed

I hear a saint striving to utter the following words, behind his turbant:

"The air is beautiful."

The words are vague, easily unclean and flow directly into the thorns.

I had (or have) much to offer.

Do you care?

Fair enough.

I am a waste,

I run sadly,

I am blocking the sun with a finger.

Wading Through Harlow's Wilderness, I Forgot The Words As Soon As I Wrote Them

I forgot the words as soon as I wrote them.

"Odette I have discovered within you a rose."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I remember Harlow was long overdue behind cathedrals.

He who really was a sailor back then through wonders.

I have tried to remember.

The white soul of Oswald slipped from the hands of the heavens.

A firmament but, some say a lament.

What did she say to you

that made you crawl through the cliffs?

(Across the cliffs)

At the very heart of the bone of the whale.

She said:
"I exceed your expectations, every one of them."

But I remember she really whispered:
"I refuse to let you calculate your future."

Here we are, all of us.

Defeated.

yet Hooked,

beneath a nuclear sun.

I forgot the words as soon as I wrote them.

Sinful Shepherd

It makes a difference,
maybe it is myself but

the words are made of

roses,

are they made of ashes (rather)?

that, a blunt stab into Solomon's darkness

being raw the flesh and cold the river.

I let him.

I let him wear me out

as a shepherd with the body and the oil

and the face, holy.

Which is the sky that rains?

I am in denial through the doom

it is "we" that I want.

Two neglected sons,

up in the mount.

I have bathed in the river,

seven times eleven times and I'm sinful and I'm wading.

And I love you again,

I love you immensely past ancient book(s)

past silver skies

past the green pastures of soulful RIGHTEOUSNESS
in

FI

GU

RA

TI

VE

love,

spoken love.

Forever I dwell inside of you,

on Minerva's Garden my cup overflows

A solemn shadown,

an absurd shadow,

an open branch.

I do not know who I am.

I kiss your memory through fifty seven centuries,

careful arms, again wading.

Ambigous shepherd I will become.

Firenze

Vanilla dust scrapes the creamy surface.

I guess I'm still searching,

above thousands, white-headed.

The land oils the hands that work the harvest under a heavy sun,

but the eagle sets off.

Barely elsewhere.

On-his-own.

Do I find you here?

I am stirring the sun.

I AM STIRRING THE SUN.

I AM STIRRING THE SUN.

I blend

with a

gloomy

sun.

What is a human?

When is enough?

I am stirring the sun.

Heart-stirring the sun.

Perhaps it is me the one I should find first.

The yellow of the sun,

not to be confused with betrayal: the eagle bursted. (off).

A breeze stirred the leaves.

I can't help but wonder...

Somehow elsewhere I might find me.

What is that, I don't know.

What do I feel

Sun, I didn't feel.

A dull leaf that stirred with the wind got lost and flew,

from beginning to end

above white-headed

calves down

Treasures inland...

The knees fell as the sword hit the ground.

Sadness inland, the kingdom I thought I could call my own vanished.

I am scared and lonely.

Constanza Midnight (Part One)

1. The boy is not a man in the desert.

Darkness is not to be confused with evil.

He that is sinful amongst ourselves, let him first CAST A STONE in the middle

of a raining Black Hole.

Science drew a triangle and answers were achieved.

Constanza Midnight (Part Two)

2. Those who cast the stone definitely increased possibilities of being hunted (or aroused)

Is the question that drew from the answer a crucial question per se?

The love that is carried away through blossoms and brightness truly drowns the Wintergreen that spread like wildfire around the Garden.

Persephone stood up and smiled: "Let's not return to the Garden."

Let us not indeed.

A sudden awake from reality drives me and pulls me down-to-earth, up-to-the-toe

and I am getting close to finding an answer.

Constanza Midnight (Part Three)

3. A variegated revelation:

It is not Midnight when the sea is aligned with the Pendulum at the turn of the Century.

Leave the petals astray.

Men astray in Constanza Midnight.

Darkness is not to be confused with evil.

The space is withdrawn within its Black Hole. Science-Fiction at its best and I have not been the same ever since.

Brain? Fried. Demented.

The revolution begins at the Nectar of love that is

allegedly found at The Photon Band.

Tainted

Yes, dry. Quite dry there.

Tarantulas all over the ropes that held the horses. (Allegedly)

I stood on the Good law, on the Sheriff's side, becoming (soon) the ONLY side.

On Barren's Edge,

Where the streets appear only on the Sheriff's map,

where the tumbleweeds scrape the surface OF THE HORSES RANGE there is a dusty cliff and he can see the ocean from there.

Who again.....................................................?

you wouldn't know and he tied a horse around his shoe.

Upon the Sheriff's village.

Yes, a village: a new open branch: tainted.

Such molasses falling and falling thick and slowly drowning the tongue of the Sheriff.

"MURDER!

MURDER!!

MUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRDEEEEEEERrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRR"

A witch ran across the village,

chased with the fire nearing...

The fog and the sea on her side.

Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the w-

Again, the sea on her side.

On the Good side: please, no longer the Sheriff's side.

A black fog around her whispers:"Forlorn is not the rose that wraps the single thorn around the Horse's leg.

Forlorn is the rose that is genuinely dropped sixty-seven times from the cliff that holds a golden Badge in its dusty ground."

An Answer for a Steady Sun

All in all for the better,

the salt in the sea and a big love the leaves the honey astray.

There was a forest in which I

sunny, sun with the dirt

some other balmy hearts

across the black lava

that held your bosom

and helped your cross

around the multiverse

walked, steadily and blocking the dusty rays of the sun.

How strange, a forest that held a barren sun rather than a barren heart.

I'm all in all a better soul,

atop the sacred tears that have divided tangerine love,

in the middle of that sunrise I suddenly found an answer.

Harlow's Prayer

"It spreads, like rivers from my African belly."

What?

Was the old lady foreshadowing a betrayal?

I turned my back at the sun.

There might be better clouds ahead,

above the orchard

where my baby used to play the blues.

Apples, and pepper and I'm already there, back there.

But the orchard vanished: a mirage.

Another unfinished tale.

I saw a man running a knife through a tree.

I looked again.

No one.

I was a pillar of salt.

Lot, where are you?

I turned my back at the sun

and Amy withdrew her eyes from the meadow because the rain had drowned her sunrise.

Ginger, a loner.

I am from the roots, ginger and a loner.

As a broom, the true story wipes the dust from the coffin.

You twist the knife.

(Man squints his eyes, immediately closes his book and wipes his façade)

You ruined me.

I felt like sand,

and betrayed,

and federal,

and risen,

You deserve ripe corn,
inhuman that you are.

But I walked, I squinted my eyes seeking for gold

inland,

I deserve it.

I am Ginger,

and I felt so alone,

the walls were grey come Sundays.

I don't know about those words,

what to expect,

or what is a sun,

I don't know.

I hesitated,

and

what is a sun?

I don't know anymore.

I hugged the air,

merry are the ones that felt like feathers

when a building was collapsing above them.

a Rose Forlorn, Classic.

Odette,

why a rose?

Remind the cast that the play is not over,

Please, remind the pianist to change

the key of the song

(down a semitone)

after the pain

withdraws from the mouth of the rose.

I am waiting for the moment

like a borrowed light aroused, dimly.

As the flame touches the page someone leaves the cast astray.

The piano paused.

And sand started LEAKING OUT OF IT.

The First Light

Between the cold morning and the travelling ice,

I admited to have rushed the harvest.

I rushed it, man.

And it shattered.

It fell between my foam,

I felt it almost reaching your hair,

but barely,

barely love that grew out of it.

Barely anything.

And I stood there,

building a world that never existed.

Am I wandering?

The rain leaves my grey brains coiling.

I walked the walk wisely thinking:

"Now, the scent of coffee brings the harvest back.

Am I ever going to be able to put and end to this?"

Man, let's put the harvest back

and let me love again.

June's Edge

June, you were variegated.

A big fat rat in a New York sewer,

and at the same time

a warm whimsy tropical wholemeal wind in the yellow sun of my Texas heart.

I wish I was her on Mondays.

When the breeze is aligned with the sun

and the harvest is golden-best

and the ducks head south

and the aquamarine reflects a silver light on my sand.

On your sand? : lack of love.

Me being herself can pour torrentials upon it,

The venom is yellow, Lemon.

The venom is green again upon sadness...

Some Sunday Words

I stood still in the middle of a white circle. In the white room.

Such thoughts that make the heart race.

Oh well, such lengthy love bordering in disappointment.

The meadows are full of color again.

I said to myself:

"I wanted an ocean.

I got an ocean...
And I should have been more specific."

With The Heavens Shut, I Swallowed The Meadows.

Rose Apple,

Oh well, oh well.

The sun is not pink but rather cumbersome.

I have met the Golden sadness and the

Tangerine happiness

and ate them.

Plum is in your lilac heart,

a feather falling!

A feeling, the color is warm yellow.

The glow exists without a twist.

I can be happy within sadness.

Watermelon,

Vanilla,

Tamarind, Velvet.

White, lush in the mountains.

White Flight

You with the tea and all

This warm woman great shaman from the bottom up

grabs the tea and explores the leftovers

"Not much in this mint feast,

those medieval urges,

crunches-up-to-the-knee

Western honey so slowly bathing your c- (THE REST I COULD NOT DECIPHER)"

What else was she supposed to foreshadow?

An ancient sheet, dry and unclean?

The Good Book of Blues, Mint Skin and Pepper.

Epilepsy eclipsed by the light of the moon,

a white flight beyond OUR senses.

We,

both.

As a dark axis, DNA.

The ratio of the vultures,

screams from the lung.

I am between dark and holy.

That is good,

but what else did she wrote?

For Anyone That Has Ever Felt Empty And Discouraged

After the wind and after

those who were left battered and ripped apart.

After all those days

Lemon love that wraps me is stronger.

Love is strong and I believe in myself, again: yesterday or tomorrow.

I find myself singing with the wind ravishingly flourishing inside me

The son I do not want.

The sun I want.

Again,

gracefully and respectfully

(would you be willing?)

My kindness is in the air for you to grab

I'm not done,

my head is high

I'm walking, falling and rising.

And I've tried and failed and kept trying.

You have felt it.

You have felt it.

You have felt it.

We're strong.

The curtains are shut.

Darkness in the middle of the sun?

I don't think so.

We're better, we have so much to offer.

We are not alone.

Yes, beyond being a human I am a friend.

I said:

"Love is stronger,
the courage finds its way out of my heart."

Molasses Among Men.

A succesful jerk.

Peaches and Cream all over my office notes.

Arguably, we're both meant to fall endlessly

on golden oily rivers,

drowning and foaming at the mouth.

I love you and a triangle is drawn between us,

amidst the silky snow,

and the forbidden sins that we embraced throughout our bodies.

I wouldn't trade our joy for a solid answer.

The unknown tastes lime green.

I need you.
Down-to-earth-ly.

Clover

I think

you would feel better under my storm.

I'm an enigma

but I do not let you know.

You're an enigma

A withdrawal from a desert, I have felt a void.

Lust

Now you are WINE

Coming,

or cumming.

The strongest of the breed.

A wreck now composed.

I composed your music, man:

"Erase everything.

Feed the lava at the minor chords

Retain yourself

as a creature once extinct

today risen aroused and pumping wine."

I thought you were extinct indeed.

Never thought you would return:

Red wine.

Rita Hayworth said to me in a dream:
"Baby, you can move mountains with lust."

Lush.

Under The Night

When you disappear behind the moon I wade through the fog,

after the rain... black and white and desperate.

I don't want to let you go.

Your flavor speaks to me in the forest,

as the wood embraces the moss

and as the moss waters

coldly...

Each drop falls

DEEPER.

I dream about you often,

An engine: there. In my south below.

Ursula's Prayer

Something was wrong amidst righteousness.

A man who borrowed your fork to feed himself SEAWEEDS.

"Hold on.

half-a-moon, this is an omen."

Amen, an omen.

You were pulled out of the sea.

Such a siren begging out of the waves

Risking Virgo's desire,

a woman walked by:

(oscillating between darkness and day)

"..."

Tarantulae over your body.

Blackened, barely.

"No. Absolutely."

a Skeleton:

"I never forgave you, Ursula."

About the Ocean

Truth is bright:

when all is said and done

a light will reflect above the sea,

quirky platinum on the surface.

Many traveling days,

Sea Phantom

the tea is served overseas.

How are you?

"I've been through life"

Again, seashells.

I will not forget where I was 2 years ago.

I remember you about the ocean,

warm, turquoise lime.

A line has been traced.

Rufus, do you listen sometimes?

Aunt Jemima's Fake Warmth

Aunt Jemima, yes dear, I am sinful.

Please swallow your tongue.

The wind is blowing colorfully here.

The sun wraps itself around immortal evenings.

You don't have to bring your fire to this vast oily field.

We have our own.

Your eyes are a lie, a white beam erected upon a

system,

a promise you once heard

and decided to somehow embrace.

May the sand wrap you mercifully

into oblivion.

Baby, cold water never tasted so good.

Royal? Farfetched.

May the poison be served before the banquet.
"So have I"

So many secrets woven unto your gown, mister.

Oswald we're both deservers of the throne

and at the same time inflicted upon society,

nerve-wracking, royalty upon your dirt.

A trophy, an exit passed by our lane.

I can smell the troubled air:

the vitriolic poison that ended your life.

They poured it when you were not looking.

Sudden Swamp

I am afraid I have forgotten you.

The days are full of youth.

A white breeze seizes my window,

through baby-sunshine.

There are no sandy days

the yesterdays are mint-green,

such honey and milk over your sacred fingers.

Surefooted I was a martyr,

properly and well to do,

with eleven sailors

throughout the Seas

(whether at peace or war)

I thought I was there, when I wasn't.

Therein (laying underneath dried leaves)

Across the cliffs

and at the very heart of the bone of the whale.

A voice said:

"Welcome to Ursula's Swamp,

where the todays are mint green

behind a night that beholds doom."

I thought this disease was over,

but the disaster was just beginning to turn white.

I don't want to talk about

the disease that spreads in the air,

not today in SUBTERRANEAN coughs,

between jokes that manage to

bring back

the

memories

that

I

thought

had

fallen

of

The Tree of Agnes.

The view from here is Blurry.

the Swamp quickly turns yellow as I manage to wade

between ooze of darkness.

black oil, slow and doomed.

Like ourselves,

when love is a harvest destined to be

a bad omen

and a black foreshadow

for this farm

for the sons of the sons,

the suns of the suns

that belong to

a vain promise

carried from a voice

to another,

3.000 years in advance.

There, I am hugging air,

despite a lack of field.

Vincent's Prayer

I believe in myself,

behind the white Night

and dark clouds.

I'm just there, hanging between

the ripe soil

and the sickening soul

of fearful ones.

The rain falls

disgustingly.

I will see better days climbing the summer fence.

Content in variegated dreams.

Oswald, the tide is cruel amongst us,

but I can see (from here)

that we are already winners.

The Sun That Follows

Do you forget who you are?

Under an evil intention overflows your identity.

Your welfare is at the moon, with the wolf.

Natural love,

sun to rain,

Vanilla Skies.

A Poignant Rose, Houdini.

Seldom when the seed is softened by the river nectar,

a frame is found inside the stigma.

Houdini turned sideways, claustrophobic:

"Away where the clouds swallow white,

I will breathe, vastly inside a triangle.

Through the gentle sword,

pulled out of the skull

I will search for you,

through the fire

through the chains,

to find the mountains where

the clouds are suspended.

The birds chime

between native bells.

Clear water falls downways Lupe's

dark hair,

(a rainy night)

revealed to be

an outpour now staining

her folky

dress."

Impulsively I cried in happiness,

around the poignant soul of Houdini's prayer.

Across The Garden

Something else rather than a void,

if the crystalline heads south.

Some other roses in this garden,

Harlow, red-faced, about the clouds.

Beneath the dried leaves I
need to find the essence of the human.

Persuaded, beautiful, red and grey.

Agnes' Chandelier.

It is cruel, if you can breathe.

Red romance behind the fence.

At the border I yelled.

Strawberries,

throughout ever-blossoming autumn.

And I Wasn't There.

Well, time DROWNED the last drop of sand.

I drove fast,

I didn't look back,

they have become SALT.

In the dark morning there is a line,

a key:
"West Indian"

embossed.

When I dropped the key BACK INTO THE SAND,

a bell rang and vibrated like a rattlesnake.

The clouds were RED.

The drums banged

and held themselves in mid-air.

A sheriff is standing far away

Raises one hand,

flowers poured out of this HAND like water.

I looked again,

nothing there.

A skull in the sand.

Someone approached me.

Eve Marie Saint, is that you...

Doll, I DON'T

want to hear about how well Jacob is doing.

His ladder

was buried

and now the sand is asking for water again.

For a Girl

"It was our song"

She hummed with her pencil

about to dance

in yellow paper.

The sky shut

with a grimace,

to my dismay

and to everyone else

that really knew your name.

You ask me

what was wrong

love was behind

but where is the line

I don't think the

line

is really

traced

at this point of our lives.

But we

cannot help ourselves

indulged in love

we

take the line

and like a bind

we drown

ourselves

in a fuzzy dream.

Very bad,

life goes on

for an instant

Behind this rain lies a sunset,

wide and variegated.

And the thoughts

and memories

that are far lost

behind ourselves

we turn our backs

and sit on a train

and there is an outpour

raining, big dark clouds.

Fogged windows.

Paris awaits,

with a sun as big as our

souls.

We deserve the journey,

to wander in nature.

We never really allowed ourselves.

This is a process.

We're all learning.

"Life."

Miles, Cracks and Sunday Sand

Sad to see

or to say

I would

drink from a

beautifying

genius

plentiful

ocean

of vitriolic

waters

for you

for

anything

you have

poured

your eyes on.

The gold

that once

grew

from our trees

now

melts

down

a

fall

goes down

and crashes

I can't help

but feel sad

when the

white birch

bleeds red

when

the native

man

drinks

from the

wild desert

and falls in

the dry sand

in a crack

that wasn't there

the day before.

Sorrow For Two Voices

Thank you.

You held me around the square,

there,

as I began to think about spring as a kid.

Everything was warm and familiar.

It tasted like blueberry pies and

smelled like

rain on the ground.

There you were

not only around my ears

but around me

and again

I grabbed the guitar and

traded my bed for a pair of drums.

I have been

risen

ever since

inside of blues

and rock of

tender

glances.

There is nothing we can do.

We grew away and the wind carries our

bad thoughts

rather our

memories stay embedded in the heart.

Untitled

Sometimes the silver thread seems to

trace a bitter ground.

But I never stopped believing in myself.

I have not tasted wisdom from your grave.

But I have embraced wisdom myself.

I hold winter and autumn in my hands.

I have come to conceive hopelessness many times from the wings of a dove.

Carried through flames

jumping and coiling.

I'm there.

Sometimes I want to disappear.

Mother you have felt this.

There is a new sky for us,

beyond this mountains, a vast field

with green and oil.

flowers beneath a cascade,

warm air,

big sun.

We have to wait a little bit longer.

Stay with me as I will always need you.

These clouds that we are looking at today

Are not the same clouds that will carry us tomorrow.

Vitriolic and Blue

I HAVE seen it

taking a stand

far,

from democracy

or delicious sunsets.

You seem to

have

read through water

and

sunk

deep in oil.

Never for me, for

aquamarine

affections

that fold themselves, (hidden)

and seduce your senses

but they (then) trigger

and like big

hydrangeas

drown you and leave you to rot.

I always knew BETRATAL had a somewhat blue hue.

Barren, Love.

Yes, the air you breath is holy.

And yes, I've been downgraded from the sky.

You gave your heart a reason.

I gave my heart a beat.

Yes, your passion was a newborn.

Yes. My passion was barely native, but pure and white.

Yes, you were fixed before.

I've never, but in this Earth

(and stay with me as I say this)

I have seen more and I have felt more as

I have walked on fire and broken glass.

Yes, you seem to have walked and

I myself have a reason (as well)

to love you

from my yellow sun who has

never been confused. Never.

Far across the room I see you from a wide crack.

Far and intangible.

You have read the score from a mountain,

a cold, severed, one-hit melody downwards:

Bb

A

Ab

E

It makes me coil, you are so far and upwards you rise.

I deserve you.

I deserve more.

I deserve more.

I deserve far much more.

Sky of Sixty-Seven Roses

Cotton-driven.

Impossible like a warm skyline.

The paradox within you and me
strikes against the moon and the moon

is tempting the waves,

the waves lick the sand and as I lay there I was a loon.

Aloof and a loner inside the Sky of Sixty-Seven Roses.

I see you (softly)

there is a shadow and a light to you,

divine and whole in my own terms.

a blasphemy to your own terms

seduced by white air across your warm native land.

But all in all I will have spring inside

when you carry yourself

blossoming

by the thunder

and saying: "you are gold to me

inside the Sky of Sixty-Seven Roses."

Inside Luciano's Pocket

Every single one of the Rosaceae were orange-blossoming.

They jumped on a vessel, in the salmon lake.

The minor leap of luxury.

But nothing of this is written on paper.

little Rosidae, when are you going to forgive me?

The forest is yellow

and you are given orange because pink wasn't on the canvas.

A little Irish snow came to greet your big and warm entrance.

Whether the flood is brown or yellow it does not mind.

I don't want to say 'flower' but there is

something inside the clock on the Ledger Wall

Something tells me that the days are long gone

amidst the autumn sun

inside Luciano's pocket

not warm

instead cold and forlorn.

Georgia's Fire

I have found you and (at the same time)
victory appears delicious and tasteless like wood.

This many white lights remind me of you again.

I have found you.

Your eyes across a line bigger than fire.

You have crossed a line

and have lost it

by walking across wood warmer than fire,

away, north

as I'm walking south.

Bright

The sun found you, early and

embraced your hair.

I saw it myself,

on a garden,

Black Pepper,

between the devil and the deep blue sea.

You and the sound of a harp,

between scarlet clouds I gave it all.

Against all odds I see myself traveling next to you.

New In Town

"How are you going to jump?"

Besides blue my face was also predictable.

You go. They have.

Joseph's nightmare has, as well.

They left because there was nothing left to their lives.

No blues.

I must have heard you a thousand times.

But never actually listen.

Long Avenue

I was dreaming,

barely bordering the peril of a Black Hole.

White noise

(an odalisque was waiting)

was it day

or was it night?

Night.

The sky was white and I was definitely leaving.

Soon a salesman, "Kinger", came to notice.

Bills on his hands, one hand was slightly crooked.

The stories he exposed, of Vietnam, were all fake.

He left, warm and with twice as bills on his hands,

he had the same amount nevertheless.

The following scene was core to this all.

I saw a figure I believe I have known forever.

"en turquoise, je me rends."

yes.

It was you again and never.

Suspiciously tall.

At the corner you were heading:

Elaine's Bar.

You were looking at the t.v,

on a bench and had already ordered,

the salesman, "Kinger", was there.

Eating ravishingly.

I don't know if I was noticed.

I don't recall much else.

I do remember some plastic, cheap pens,

on someone's hands

Was it yours'?

Was it the salesman's?

Again, was it day?

was it night?

Lunar Jump Fantastic

What have you find that

is making heads turn around

with the flow, with spirit

What is it

that (at the crack

of dawn) finds itself in many rivers

aroused and white

and simple

How many magpies have

blown their whistle how

many soldiers have

surrendered their weapons

It makes me think some-

-thing is different in the language of the field

in front of hungry eyes.

I said, I see you and

I can not reach you

not at the elbow

not at the drop of a hat

not at the end of the day where I find myself

embedded

to air

and having white thoughts

conveyed

down or up

to whatever phase of the moon you are being taken to.