Sole dead brother, gentle mother in the downstairs at Sequoia
I'll never forget those towering cedar, that curling oak, leaving Graw's knuckles raw on a lawnmower in Homosassa
The peppers are growing out back on Sawyer now and things are getting less rocky
The days are less stocky, less full of lumps, there are still slumps, but we keep moving
The strong stuff is soothing but I'm losing a piece of my soul
at least I don't feel that way with a bowl
A slant of words over fanfiction love and D&D plots
A spilled spot of paint on your eisel, sending words as if by magic spell, fluttering hands
The rhythm in the sand, a cross band of constricting conflicting chaos catastrophes copied
A hot sheet, hot meat, wrapped it, in cellophane, plastic
