skate on a crystal thinning
silver lakes. Swinging down
on rose vines they throw out
rhymes in a parade
to be seen. Pasting it
like paper dolls in these rooms
that have not walls, some call
a magazine. Till the weeks
scream not in words
but freshly painted silences
dropping down in bombs
of red. There fly pieces
of a dream. It's raining shards
of thank you nots. And like tots
wobble to the next room for
a shot with bruises on their egos
and knees. Waiting to please
men coloring with pen in the lines. Dotting
their eyes with white cotton, they'll not
be sought in this edition.