Saturday, April 23, 2016


Show me all your figure eights
and your pencil drawings and
I’ll write a song that sounds
like rain. Let’s wade in deep
until the current takes us; 
the million hands of the sea, 
the dark tide of trees, or the
loneliest diamond hued desert.
We’ll bury the compass and push
off from the past. There will be stars
without names and rivers
that never go home.





.

No comments:

Post a Comment