The stuff that comes out a bird's mouth.
i want to put my hands
in your hair
you are like filament
glowing in an
incandescent bulb
hard to look at
until you hear
that tinkling snap
and then darkness
and i wished i had risked
the blindness of looking
rather than the blindness
of looking away
or extinction
a trickle
few drops left
and not enough to quench
a normal thirst
yet a flood for mine
when i have given up
the need for water
the wind moves
in this grove
rustling the tall grass
the hollow grass
they strike each other
played like instruments
knocking
knocking
dappled light
filters through green
and yellow
yellow and green
it is easy to forget
the blue of the sky
the cold sunlight
the cold sun
