The heartland of the hidden faces in
That unearthly color. Was it so strange?
A slight hint of orange? Their skin matched by
Pale yellowed people of sepia photographs?
In those days of smoking flights, Delta trips
In your lungs. Gravity pulled together
Only two. Again, the command pouring
Through windows. Packed in their own acts of creation.
She looked happier with her hair pulled back,
Tied back to her silvered silhouette of
White water floating in on whispering
Clouds of mourning, sending bodily vibrations.
Placing events in time, you begin to
Wonder if it really happened. It was
The movement, flapping wings and sparrow’s breath.
To create a narrative. Feel the pain. The loss.
Red Eyed Tears
The Baptist Church on
Saturday and umbrella
With their lumberyard.
Three Men Now Have
Glasses frame and a mustache tree.
The stock pair of dreams.
And Nights Passed
Their hats in rumbles
Of petal blood. They honored
Heart shaped Feather trim.
Stan had the field so
He could be fed on the tall
Grass when there was none.
Jerod Thompson, the
Crispy wearing man, relearned
The laws of physics
As paintbrushes blinked
In and out of his hands with
The swiftness of thought.
Can you have Ron Jeremy
Wolfe’s statue in your life?
He was your bold blood
As thick as the ideological similarities.
Typical scholar legalized the higher numbers.
Bring the class back.
An ancient work being grazed from literature.
Tacos roam from discussion.
Mayo on top of dead reasoning.
Accidentally discharged on my left hand.
Cat practicing the think of dreams.
The bell is Mexican because of a curse.
She can teach many.