June 7

What woods are these?
What brush and what trees?
What purple veins on platinum leaves?
I can not see

that great gold ball of a sky,
nor my palladium moon
hanging slivered in my vision
and half-hidden

by the truth. It’s my own shadow
and curve of my earth
that shaped the pace
and motion

until I woke up here, distressed
by off-colored madness
and scents of lemons
in leaves

dry as a crisp autumn forest.
The rest is mystery,
hand of the Father
and odd dreams.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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