let down your Nevada hair,
you are a haiku,

my dream catcher is in pieces,
on my chest,
like clipped fingernails,
or washed ashore,
sea shells,
like unprepared jazz players,

my radio is crying,
the 30's,
my bed won't budge,
the novels,
like acoustic night women,
bare,
with constellations,
hyrogliphics and cigarette brands,
branded on their backs.