lost fabric’s found;
but, in truth, the
found fabric’s lost
lost fabric’s found;
but, in truth, the
found fabric’s lost
recanted nights
among the trees –
moon-called hubris
it’s hard to climb
mountains hewn from
superstition
standing beside
the seaside nets –
salty amends
the weariness
of many years
terrorizing
letterbox blue
with paint and with
empty waiting
the sprawling green
of ecstatic
ebullience
not so paltry
are days spent small
and joys writ large
the cotton fields
still remember
and we reap grief