Smitten by your holy
tongue, the muse melts
in the raging sun.

There was a deep
gorge between the hills.
My face turns blue.

Trembling hands will knit
splendent wreath for a
departing moon.

For you.

You take off your ghostly dress.
You sell it to the baker who's new.
You look forth, back and around me.
Even As I stand next to you.
You're in slumber on the rug in the lobby.
You're coffee lips they seem down.
But I can see your intentions.
Even with your head to the ground.
So there you stand in the corner of the room.
With blanketed sound.
Of rain and Falling neon.
As you remember to turn around.
Here you are walking to me
Placing your ether hand.
To the place.
You wish a kiss will land.


Garrett Johnson.