Red gold stroking strings
of Terra-cotta tocsin,
bounced a check today
and we wonder
will she rot in her cups?
How might we drink
all these donuts...
as a finger stirs the air,
her drum roll eyes...
time became tree limbs
of propaganda.

Why.

Cloud kissed
by hills
hemmed in
by patchwork stone,
a providence in Perugia
her cobalt dreams
strum gypsy wings
where
yellow fringed faces
follow the sun,
an itinerant balloon
tints the grass fucshia
then drifts away
to kiss the sky.