I have been to the land
where the wind breathes an innocent game with the torn hem of a summer dress
where sanguine fruit drips down the ribbed cage of a birch white neck.
A pitted peach core shadows and stains on a breast,
Sunflower thorns teeth at spider hands
left behind in a flood of running downhill.
Falling calloused toes, clouds
looming over a silkworm landscape,
writhing into a schizophrenic’s dream.
Loose golden hairs trickle a stream in their wake,
Slits of light move honey slow through trees
swelling at times with a gust.
My mind prays for its indian summer
one which helps tree roots break through
soil, or cement,
Knobbly knees to climb up on-
Great stepping stones to the sky
while a second is enveloped by a coiled wave and froth gasps out.
Envision the mutilated town of an imaginarium-
a cyst of refracted memories,
while time flies out of hand like a paper cup.
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