Not much to lose, except pluck-feathered madness.
Newspaper column doodles turn to yellow.
A tongue is dribbling down the leisure agedness
into a cup of nasal alto fellows.
Sopranos of the wind grasp salty sadness,
small crystals of roulades – sky smalt to mellow;
they let the light to pierce each word and stay as
inferno puddles – sun on path, or bellows.
This dance is endless – forte-to-piano,
and from piano into deeper forte.
It’s time for bio-fielded contrasts harvest.
The fields are up to brim in scarlet running…
Still silencing and wishing, still spike-sorting
dream dandelions start their windy carvings.
February 21, 2018