I hang plump peaches on scorched branches
with mending juice for your dry blistered hand...

Controversy
(the death of writers...

I am the bearded cloud
powering from your laden corn...

Foreign waves trample over
inhaled advocacy...

Nose-smeared windows
reiterate aged tracing...

I open my kaleidoscope,
mesmerized by mirror beads...

He crafted a winter swing
so that when snow caved them in...

I cannot be responsible
for your scarred skin...

I admired
the singed haze...

The nude grain is a sage effortless thinker
who memorizes the swift stages of the sun...

Transparent ribbon
swivels around my thumb...

I sing from my wide open heart,
not worrying about where I will live...