with a gentle dust of cinnamon
trade innocence for light each mothers wait
that soars with each, the skylark
and the never-ending green of summers sprem.
what burns cannot forsake the homeless sneeeze
the breeze that begs an encore
now the willow sleeps with a distant twin,
each lock of hair no more inept than we;
this is no more than solitaire.
no breakfast-bowl forsaken
now the chomping at the bit
that bids one final sad farewell
to the orange pith, the goat herd and the itch.
corn-fed the red nosed reindeer,
swimming through the barnacles and the fossils of the dead;
high-rise it seems our concrete and our steel.
well-heeled the tallest flowers
now showers us with turtle-juice
and a never-ending rhyme.
what time of day we strangers once now friends
with our belly\'s full of slime and apple-pie?
there is a woman in my grave
she is swimming through the barnacles and the fossils of the dead.
code-red she tells my seeping flesh; code-red;
`