show me the secrets of the ******
a weaver in the fields and streams
jump into pools of laughter’s savor
i am waiting for your heart
string the lute
I pray you please play me a tune
simple like the mustard on your nose
stones are strategies or perhaps tragedies
born of misery
in silent overtones they grow
into gesticulated Germans
demanding herbivores overthrow their coats
street muskets
atop of winter clothes
burn holes in your eye sockets
like tones through the window
i grow tired of this violence