I found that the
aesthetics of the
phoned-in
confession
tended to
disrupt
the purity of my
dreams
Nothing that a
fresh coat of
paint wouldn’t
cure but
given how
relentless the sky can be when you
need a place to
hide & the sea-
breeze stepping
it up in the ancestral cypress my
preference would
be to watch the sun
set rust into
rust as the medicine man’s daughter
said You can
lead a horse to water but you can’t
make it dance
just as dying of
thirst is the
drowning man’s
curse a
shake & bake
resolve can’t break down the door of
compassion
anymore than these tinsel
strands of
seawater can hogtie the redolent
haze that
seems to have
settled in for the long haul now
