Took a hike in a park today.
Charles Lupo at my side - camera in hand
watching, waiting, and wondering
as we climbed those cute dunes of sand and sea grass.

There we plopped our ***** down, at the top,
Charles Lupo - busy documenting beauty.
Me, reading the same,
all bewildered and stubborn-like.

At our backs: industrial and residential devils,
all doggy eyed and spoiling words, disrupting our documents.
Setting fire and hell to our paper,
one by one.
Feeding the fire of big smokey green,
across the drenched, softly-splintered sky,
and in every peripheral of its inhabitants the notion:
Fly.

Before us, the crisp clear apple light
all egg yolk orange and such.
What a happiness elixir my mind has swallowed
on the sand banks next to my documenting companion.

Devils in our hearts,
minds like America’s harsh cornerstone turning,
and the park, only an image.
We pack our things and head up or down shore.

Return is certain.