Alright for sons of mothers

to sleep in the arms of soft fog.

     Arms wrapped tight like cloth.

Skin warm-heating life.

 

Copper cream barges my core

and tells me everything is alright.

 

Brass fades brown into solemn design

and soars me high above.

            City

                        Clouds

Crickets creak in sultry garden growths

reminding of lazy memories gone.

And new wishing stones

            Skipped for Love.

 

8 April 2004