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a bouquet or two of short ones

                                        me 
                                and the crickets
                                rubbing our legs together




       no need to fly 
       south for winter
       south is flying north to me



                                                   the moon shampoos my pillow
                                                   with so much

                                                   creamy happiness
                                                   it could be your hair



                                  rich and peppery
                                  yet smooth
                                  with just a hint of massive poverty
                                  and civil strife
                                  could have described this morning's coffee
                                  or her body last night
 


     

               I begin to write
               in search of a language
               that does not pretend
               to own the land
               like a child sex slave
               

                                                       moon
                                                       selves
                                                       squirt
                                                       subconscious
                                                       ilk