Tuesday, September 15, 2015

baking in the sun

baking in the sun

there have been no rare birds,
no new flowers growing. the grass is wheaten,
my hair is on your neck, we sit by the gaunt
pond, our Chesterfields tulle the wind, there is
always a dull moment, before lips touch.

hellow, someone dares waken Venus!
i moisten bread with my gold butter brush,
you break a pie plate trying to clean it. from
behind the culture, Mr. Right Now puts up his
mercy hands for the night. a blue bird, always a
handsome visitor lands. on my knees i find my
proof deer we did not see live here.

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