it's enough that I
be this small, just big enough
to fit this one word
counting with fingers
like a child learning numbers
I write in the dark
this chirpy morning
no room left for poetry
from the rain and green
the little fountain
that came to me in a box
now has a green soul
heaven forgive me
if I step between a man
and his barbecue
so you can relax
this is how it's gonna be
alive and then dead
a lot of blank space
on a grave stone, emblematic
of all that wasn't
how lovely to find
the asphalt's skin glistening
in a quiet rain
things we rarely do
like writing without seeing
in a moonlit room
the art of living
in the playback of the lived
with a splintered heart
it's a choice, really
to say rocks are rocks, the sun
a dead rock burning
the song of tadpoles,
with my eyes closed, draws a knife
over the seen green
summer afternoon
faces blossoming softly
on the white ceiling
as I sit waiting
for the evening star, I hear
bells in the green sky
I wish my silence
could speak as well as the eyes
of little creatures
how wondrously strange
this little home in the dark
if I just don't sleep
soft rain in the morn
dashing to the balcony
to rescue cushions
summer morning rain
pink cushions helpless outside
yet such a fine bed
playful skies tonight
islands, high fives, goddesses
in the lilac veils
and then finally
alone with the kind-eyed moon
in my quiet room
midsummer morning
putting my head on her lap
is the ripe clouds' gift
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