Random heart generator between
shards of time and blue on the moon,
whispers of vigor, whispers of slumber,
listen for the spring of the windup bird.
Rust matures on an old steel fence,
the smoke of grapevine burns the tongue,
while honeysuckle lips sooth all memory.
Just a tourist in my own tattered hide
murdered the muse in long winter fog.
The trees are crisp with fledgling leaves,
when a moth’s cellophane wing beats
brush our tongue to the tempo of desire;
dream of sweet grass and thunderbolts,
taut still air anticipates the low rumble
and tumble of rain on radiant sidewalks;
the pads on our toes are impervious
to cool water and ozone at moon fall.