slow summer strokes with no pets
sleeping on pink couches in the mountains
with two boys and one grandma blanket
with roses
slow the mind to the forcefield of roses
and the proudly burnt satan trees with no leaves
tall wooden pitch forks poking gray
or black
a lightening storm on the sci-fi beach
the sea turtles are laying their eggs
somewhere
hidden in the dark dunes the water is close
and my ankles are wet and whole skin soft
like an animal with no real shape or place
only dark liquid and open
like miriam's eyes over, and over
like a phantom living in a children's book illustration
a night setting
somewhere only a few miles long
with a million stars
and a million eggs
