A profusion of bull thistle. A jazz horn, maybe Gillespie. In the back yard, frogs. A cloud in the shape of your ear.
Mourning doves mate forever. Never trust brown. Sundresses on the clothesline, a softball under the rose bush. It's late but it's not too late.
He was always alert to for lost lambs. Smells like cut grass or melting hard top. Deer prints filled with rain on which a few shreds of honeysuckle drift. Coltrane possibly, A Love Supreme.
Beginnings were what stopped all efforts at fiction, making poetry a necessity. You could drive all afternoon and not get there. Can you tell I'm lonely? A rich bed of clover, suitable for sheep.
Honey bees, neighbors. Lost love is the predominant theme. I went alone and thus. The trail in, the trail out and on the way you.
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