this air is dry;  summerful
yellow turned dehydrated ,
kind            of           orange ,
slurring      into drier hands.    
       same ones that ran
                    over
my beautiful ribs. beautifully
giftwrapped,edges folded neat.

    i really am so very neat.

(i miss the flowers)

  the rock you gave me
(/magpie/, so penguinly
                beautiful)
rolls around my sum
                -mertime fist;

it is old,has stories of Love,
& still,maybe,is volcanic on.

step into a name
like Urs           leaves
my feet so pale&dusty

;;;not for lack of
richness     ,,,no!

        U
        hang
        like
        a
        tho­ught
        bubble

under moon (& her
             gracious mind)
,   a real.tangible.place
&         so        are         U

    We could live in
           la mestra
(how ever U would like
           to spell it...)
Urs  is  the  only  name
     that            matters
             to   me

,cool,       into water
  like socks; whirlpools
splash is more than  that.
  temporarily    something
              from        ­ nothing
  n  isn't that sooooo
         gorgeous ???

                                     no,so
tragically      temporary.

i need to be
    away
 with the fae.

none of this feels
quite     so samely
           ;
the charming lilt
of a     hotreddot
     crystal/eyeses
my throat like
       cotton wool.

i need to be
music;       almost
like how    i ammm
myyyyy  poetryyyy,

n      i        don't  
   knowww     howww.

She is
        so wonderful.
  it is some thing
of a    fantasy in
how She flows;

(so    non-linear
  (like Her skirthem
is time
  (in a swift
   & graceful bow)))

She is static
     ,butmobile, &spinning
rain in Her hands;
   She is knitting droplets
        & folding waves ,

         knowing my
lips are soft,undefended
                .irarelylookup.
     yit She is there
  & there She always was

just in touching,grazing
at the edge of likelihood.
  Her name is Hope
and She is such
a spectacle.

(a hatless boy/a cowless gunslinger)
maroon about the ****** pond.
                           selfsuck-
kingly,
spurless boot drags nameless nothings
like a bridal train
                              (so promised You are)...
the dust lies though. perchance
                          the rockylike
grit in my throat has found the
                          perfect home