eighteen
not quite ready
for dreams to understand
books with pages turned
as words unbound
poured into the seeking
of mystery
returned –

between the suns
eyes were closed
as life begun

knew it well
another place
as real
made more than this
remembered
resurrected me again
scribbled as a page
of rightful circumstance
living lost –
would ever real
make sense

or daisies bloom
to die
against the moon

smoke rings
rising somewhere –
names to taunt
my tongue
are missed of times
whene’er my pillow warns
of mornings spread
to fingers –
curs’ed light
to find me here

counting rings
and humming –
songs no one can hear

. . .