Monday, August 15, 2011


scuffed blues

the written sky claims

to be marred topless

we spot

longshots & popcorn tails

selling good’s buys

before tulips close

so intuition’s counterfeits

can destroy pluck

hardly telling

curtains grime showers

old as stone

our devils descend

moded out of clutches

slightly blown on

off our veering trails


as they say

miss mights

wrong new’s rights

and snip cruddy hours

from the day’s flowers

but who finds its own how

gardening over breakfast

we take tea’s time and

fit propellers to our pith

don’t ask what’s a drop

to a spilled ocean

if regret’s water

and fish fly backwards

or a breath’s air swims in silt

as it smiles for decoration

then surely hands are not dishes



like sure’s glad almost tells

we argue

they just might

be spoons