i have dreams in my waking gate
and seldom say the other thing they be.
The Mare in the Night
rearing up from the dun earth
and sallow plot. the unkempt spot.
but -
i have my desert and my understanding.
and they are the same *****
suckling the pup tent
of my yurt
on my plateau...
tacked to a tundra
where giants walk
with tree trunks in there eyes
hurling bitter Fall at smug Summers...
and trampling the yippie!
of succulent
Spring.

but again... the worst can go more wrong
if the right thing to do
is to die
trying.

and to return -
is to speak a lost word
where we
found
it
on the
lips of a
mute

with a microphone.