We are walking;
it tousles hair
across my eyes, across the white,
slicing one tear
from many.
We are riding, windows open;
it is rough
against my cupped palm,
rejecting my caress
again and again.
We are trying to sleep
in the cloudless moon;
it fidgets each window
and shakes the panes
until I think something must break.
When it sorrows,
it stings.
When it pleads,
it sings.
what's wrong with lee's comments?
j r sherman
already did. now sit down and be a good mystic.
lRt