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.