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.