There were still little words grated in the brush, ourself riding around, a great black horse,

the eyeliner, and an iris forest escapes.  I am the flowering fire, a sunset westcoast in the twinkling

airwaves, or radiowaves, and so we can breathe the literal mass of wind.  The green carressed and

aerially blessed, deepness and depth; what is truly grey.

The powerlines stretch hungrily for days, we see the purple glow and thus it exists-- we graze like

ghosts or bugs and try to find the blessed.  We wind up and clear the smoke, and blindness is only

black until death peers through, and calls the bird call, a shrilling through the spiritual silence.

I can see you on maps, you reoccur the same, giant and all. You are the same story and dwell

in roles through my brain.