May 18th

Heat in the bite
agile is the seed
with taste
of dirt
born wild from the weed.
These mounds
of dandelion and clover
sweat spills
in the run

and I
wailing down
because the sun
won’t set.
Dazed and timid
the thin waves head
toward the call
of a gull

Just live
they all said
as a maker marks
a bed
of arts unwoven
pale hare under the bush
make yourself known to me
I’ll lay in
your eyes
your eyes
all the ages I fell

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