Does not the sun
that softens the wax
turn on the clay
to make it hard ?

So many have accumulated over time
all stacked on top of each other

in an open cardboard box
not a bin

trucks sedans
sports cars

of red yellow
and blue

scratched and chipped
mementos

of a well worn
youth

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.

Watercolour,
Two tears of rain-

Coppered silk dissolves,
Hanging over time.

If Fuji remains
Tell me when

She is a bubbling crater
Steaming lake, fisher,
Cormorant
And all