Pitty-Pat
Oleander to the death of horses
Odilon Redon was mother’s martyr
Ruined no mounted with true love but askew
How it is these sounds reach back in time
A first beloved smelling of milk and tar
In time to find first poets grassy
Churning the ice cream blossoming
Philosopher it makes sense it screams
Joy beloved joy and bees in the bedrooms
These sounds reach back in time I feel like an Indian
Like cut grass blown against the base of a mountain
I cannot share a dream we die alone
Born into such beautiful company
Foals find grass earth’s countless eyes
