Spring 1986, Volume 3
Children playing hopscotch On the leaves make Autumn in my heart
and supplements the pavement and the grass, assuring me another start
of Winter, the white quilt of dead security over a dying season, harv-
ested into the silos of eternity, to be devoured, incarc-
erated in the moss of my stomach, which has no reason to impart
its flight of fancy to the body street of floating smoke quartz.
But stays inside, reserved for simpler tasks of life, but not from marks
of children with blood laughs and spontaneous feet, and the wings of Larks.