Impossible.
love is.
Like trying to move
a water sprinkler
without getting wet.

Thirsty blades,
like legs dancing
clouds overhead
off in the distance
a wallflower
is drifting away
with the pink
of a sailor's sunset.

Coolest of shades
waiting for cloud and clap
to rain in some courage.

It's always about the sky
skies and trains:
me and Rimbaud,
like underwear
and *****
is Bukowski;
they just seem to
go together,
seem to
understand
each other in such a way
that they really don't,
but they keep bucking
like a wild bronco
resisting the ride
that would
take them further
than the end of the
circular track.