the cloud whisperer (Arkansas).

Little, I sculpted

the clouds
and painted

with ripples
the lakes and ponds

that grew in the yards

of the centuries.
Now, in the rusted

back bed
of a chevy truck

I lay, under
an upside down

cup of dark coffee,
trying to find my

way from
one star

to another.
Little, I woke up

the old stones
ringing bells

and making concertos
in slingshot and

broken glass,
Oh, did the Seine

see me running!
Now, the dust has

on my tired boots.
And as I turn over,

wondering where
the road goes,
a raspy National

Geographic whines
under my head.















Photo: Yves FALANGA ~


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