Life tastes crazy
like the strange note of probably
hit at the breaking point of your voice.

The hissing cackle
that is the death rattle
of significant noise,
rolls like apples across the hearth.

The lips of the river
lap kisses
and leave behind shiny fish scales
on my toes.

The water drifts
And easily lifts my skirts
where only sky can see.

Again.

Salt in the fresh water wind,
dry soil rubbed raw in my skin,
and the basket floats closer to the shore.

The dream knows me here
it touches me even now
in the dampness of summer
the dryness of heat.

I sweat a harsh polish
and sing that the light admonishes me,
dappled drapery beat against the fury of my naked windows.

The heartbeat of the waxing and waning moon
loves me now but it will not love me always...