The beak's vessel plunders
    the death of Queen Anne's
                                           twisted, soft scent often. Convenience stores
                            serve war in boxes.

                   A red giant's dimming
wit,      a devil in your balloon. The old governors burn their clothes
                                    at four,
                           four flags,
                                               free, fly
                                into home
                  where the birds die.

My half-century railroads heard the forest is green
when the trees are brown and burning
and the foliage is just a dream

              from the quick,        
                                      the blind,
                      and the ***** that can't dance with the sun like the others.
Water running at the end
of predestination of an unborn's underbelly.
                                                                ­   Say out to the head board
                         begging for attention
                                       --rather be a bridge
worn and bruised, understood and here. The night is here also,
                
             not alone, but no words shared. I rather wait for the walker
who can't sleep
                              to stare at water underneath
           and feel warm from its reflection
                                          --and can't sleep the entire night.