numerals
regardless of how many
don't make poems
unless folded
into words
dipped in yellow paint
perhaps
I count
what I have done
as much as what
I am after
the various
indulgences in
sight sound tenderness
ease along the eye
and the perfumed
touch
the past comes
around once
gone around
to fit
the saying
mayhaps
bluebells
needles of
the barrel cactus
hummingbirds
equate to particles
of matter
parts of speech
a jaundiced recollection
of now dormant
seeking via
tentacles
liberty transcends
thatch
poise traipses beyond
conceptual at least
boundaries
the life force tantalizes
impulses to sugar
what's occurred
seemingly freehand
the dosage pixilates
the numbers
varnishing shadows
apt to be
removed from
context in a tacit
spree
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