I surround myself with
Laughers, drinkers, talkers, thinkers,
Who convince me that the
USA had hand-drawn and cast
The moon into the sky
And that God was born in the
Grass and that's why
Flowers smell so heavenly.
And I believe them because
They send me stinging bolts
Settling, lingering zaps with
The swift gesture of their hand.
Reasons, I, engrossed as
Paper crushed in a fist.
I am curled in shame in
A fist like paper.