Tomatoes from Burlington, where the road nudges the escarpment.
The smell of vetiver.
Was the couch plaid? I am just wondering.
When exactly did the jaundice set in?
Balance tiny spoons until they fly like birds.
Sew book backs with pristine white gloves.
Those 446 stitches up your leg were ladders to the sky.
A little white sports car
a shooting gallery.
A tiny thinning ponytail.
A white dog, over pampered.
Glitter post rave
you are too old
held with sweat.
Was the couch plaid? Or what?
I am trying to collect evidence.
The hi-way is crowded.
Most things are thankless.
If there is hope blossoming along the bruises on your skin, show me.
Send me keys.