Afraid of the lake roofs beaming headlights
off immature consciences
burrowing wicked roots.
She is sweet and frost on the hood of cars I've never seen.

Libra eyes
returning the music from the 1990's—strung on trot lines
catching loves from last summers
in love letters.
With all the fine burdens
****** markers provide trying to find a lost person
can give—I miss that pause we get when we look at stars