This a hammer.

This a mood.

This a soft hahh.

This a nothing-flower cursing them significant brothers.

This a cartwheel of increasing pains, dancer, dancer.

This a hard place to sit still.

This a moment when no one claims me.

This a mix of all that.

This then some.

She was, last night, a hum.

Agin the hills bouncet back.

And forth the echo.

Swelled it.

Gived it back.

As a low.

Note from all.

Directions at oncet.

Then she, What don’t take you shores you up,

making the sound of a mouth ajar with want. But

he only hears night jars churning.

There are good days, I trip through like glass:

         carefully amazed.

Lying on my back when I was young,

and blowing a long, green note

on grass held tight between my thumbs,

the world seemed

         close and full.

Waking on the road, to seams

of asphalt that rock and lull, all distances

diminish.

I was dreaming of something sad and

wrong: the smell of green,

         the tickle of hair against my cheek in the breeze.

I can never remember what comes next.

The sun through tinted glass burns it away.