hilarious,
when you try
to ink it
being a foreigner
to a language...

you search
for the round spell
of a word
and to your mind
comes, oh my,
only one
- squash!

but oh!,
the buttery sound of it,
the reddish orangeness of it,
the elyptic splashes in wood
scented fields, november cold
mornings, that yearn
of a smoking cheminy,
home, others' home, there.

what was there to be inked?
i don't recall it.
i got squashed.

Sometimes at night

asleep by the firelight

I dream about them

how they died

some are singing

and others saying what

they no longer see

walking fencelines

limping as if in pain

some of them handsome

and some mysterious

silent but not

for long they tell you

men scarcely know

how beautiful fire is

and old stories

they can't remember

unless you can

still look them in the eye.