Brushing Leaves Hustling Trees Hustling Brushing Leaves Tapping Windows Rapping Brushing Water Drumming Tapping Window Dripping Water Rushing Splashing Rushing Tinkling Dripping Leaves Now Water's Rushing Tinkling; Brushing Leaves are Hushing

The solid shape of a tornado With the mirror reflection of my esophogous firmly planted underneath Filled with a dark honey-colored liquid The tube enters my mouth anticipating Slides with miraculous ease to my core And surprisingly remains

In the days the grass was thick, And air of moss rang croaker peeps, My child-imp, I heard a murmer: The richest star, and me asunder. Holding tongue we squawked a bit, With flapping flips and queasy turners, Until we bonked and thud eachother, Tumbled down and hurt the other. Then I saw you raise a smile, And our laughter rang a mile. Now we speak in adult language, 'Cept on days when I still listen; When the whiffy waif wafts right, I listen and I hear a murmer: The richest star I've fallen...

Type Forming words on your Yellowed paper, Worn in with musty smell, Thickened from years of use (and affection). Two-dimensional universe Consuming the literate Willing. Words Depicting such vivid Worlds, as untouchable as soul. Experiencing moments of Poetic reiterations (to make beautiful), Moving me to new levels Toward that perfect Thought. Oh Book.

ceci n'est pas poésie

A blue man lives in an orange town. He loves to be patient. His father tells him to eat his maths (with a knife and fork) and smile when the children pass by. He turns and tells me, "One day I will know how to change the world, but I will want you to do it. I have no hands," he says.