with, on, a truck’s van
alas, vagabond voyage ceiling
Well, astral jumping from a car /cinnamonned sun/
isn’t hard then I see, creek
the cloak, the moment and me the contracting,
a book of flights spread open, we
as its wing from gold smothered in
most blue sky and a red sign towards
embarking to a new life/face encrusting
Joy, lazy, lounged,
like a banjo in its autumn on a porch jiggly slouch,
strings light freeze at wind, clasp, then step up and
as the hitchhiker dance.
Amèlie, I caught your sound!
your theme, lastly away,
the accordion’s as of now met,
adopted in a knee’s set,
one leg around the other a mess.
Hanging springs of it, at edge.
eyes currently in wood carved,
steampunk clogs, clads there
whole body a cello,
from boots with folly drunk
through wood prolonging curved
to the “f”s at the end of ideas and
caramel hair known as falling leaves’
Driven through cloudy bright like summer
Road onward and in my third eye sown,
Thanks to the vicissitudes of
Amèlie Poulain‘s old accordion searching,
The Tarnation soft story in radio swaying.
I just saw my image on others’ cars limits,
Riding more hitchhiking than wind,
Than Fiddle on the Roof,
That could swerve on and on
With those old music clogs
Without things to be due hold