what wild dreams
do you have as you
sleep away the days
til rain comes again
and unsticks the glue
around your door

whilst you are curled
up inside your nautilus
door closed to the world

do you dream of lettuce
leafy and green,
or puddles and wet grass
that tickles your foot

what do you dream
all tucked up, tight
with eyes retracted
and stomach slim.

what are the dreams
of the small snail
as he awaits, the rains

put on your internet mittens
'cause, Baby, it's cold out there
in spite of the millions of kittens
there's a definite chill in the air

i may never read what you've written
it's not that i don't love your wares,
i'm only eternally smitten
by outdoors, green trees, and fresh air

so keep writing, Baby, go faster
it's writing that makes writing great
if you stop it would be a disaster
so stick it, you know, it's your fate

No one goes to the beach anymore.

Through the casuarinas the waves look a long trek
the lovers when from the city take a break
can only hold hands on the sands
wistfully eyeing the sea a mile away
then kissing and making up the day
riding to where the winds take them
spinning yarns along the thickly saline haze
of what could be and will be
downing the present in the crystal pool
placid as the lost yearnings in their hearts.