ten cents of sleepy fire
for the hurry timing of dreaming on earlier said riverboat:
autoharped, rewarded, black-eyed, felled.
that's just the start of the sawgrass brush.
the bridge is closed...no more wishes, my dear.
the rain has gone away.
the western sky is late.
but if you're gonna die young
what's the worry with mishap?
might as well be a giraffe riding a bike
while towing a mini-lion on the handlebars.
that's the best way to disappear, my dear.
the port water has the world painted upside down.
wonder if that is a reflection of here or a different world entirely?
one in which we don't starve in the middle of all of it
and us in the middle of a thousand raw potatoes.
that sure is the sweet sound of years.
wow to trucks.
wow to love.