the nine ladies you are sleeping now. slumbering stones warmed by the sun, your mossed flanks tickled by the kiss of a fragile breeze. late with the dance of purpled night,
nightfall over Whitby night strung in shining jet, the outline of extinguished boats glimmering, in the moment, where the tide, graceful necked and headless, pours out into the more.
at night they play music to the plants strung from the curved wooden sky, strange metallic shapes, like badly drawn megaphones in dolphin grey. in the early light
the 71 Haight-Noriega brings a simple truth home today, there is singing on the bus. it seems like an imagination, but it is very real. and beautiful in its innocence.
memory bisque the hot glow of metal, running loose beyond the window, brings back holidays: a kaleidoscopic L.A. freeway, glinting sun gold and teeth white. mine to visit,