I don't want the storm to come inside.
the rain. the snow driven mule in my vestibule
of  misbegotten hopscotch phantoms
and the wraiths of my sincere
dilemmas.

i don’t want the storm to come
with all its anguish sunning in the breeze
of my typhoons like a gluttonous calliope
harping madness and happiness in discreet dim
where the bright is young enough to disremember you
as long as you can’t Love when it counts.
like a falling star is an apple
when your wish is
fruitless.

dark ample.