lost souls and scattered spirits holdings lanterns chase spring

scars shimmer, cups revolve light's being created look at that enchanting moment a thief steals into a post office letters cry out

nails o nails the lyrics never change firewood huddles together searching for an audience to listen searching for the heart of winter river's end a boatman awaiting boundless twilight

there must be some one to rewrite love

Summer is late, my heart. Words plucked out of the air some forty years ago when I was wild with love and torn almost in two scatter like leaves this night of whistling wind and rain. It is my heart that's late, it is my song that's flown. Outdoors all afternoon under a gunmetal sky staking my garden down, I kneeled to the crickets trilling underfoot as if about to burst from their crusty shells; and like a child again marveled to hear so clear and brave a music pour from such a small machine. What makes the engine go? Desire, desire, desire. The longing for the dance stirs in the buried life. One season only, and it's done. So let the battered old willow thrash against the windowpanes and the house timbers creak. Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.

Consider our mad loves: J's for B that he only knew after she ripped out the hook. Smell rain and whose name do you say? G and R seem okay but A's ripping the cover off T's book, the cashier then asking if he'd like a damage discount and who doesn't deserve a damage discount? The heart itself apparently can be eaten, singed on a bed of baby greens. Half step, half step, clap, throw the hive upon the lap. A silver head floats in the corn. At least M has his daughter. A silver head floats at the portal. Like a dried gourd, the rattle K makes. The dream bread falls through the dream hands. Two seconds it took you to do what you did to me. Here's a breast, an eye. Here's a necessity. Flinchclatter dovespun sundrove heartsprung and sometimes the wreckage assumes recognizable shapes. Sure it does. Touch this. Maybe your father was right to hate me. I was running as fast as I could. Maybe faster. Forever and forever and forever