crop circle

what did I know then
supine in the tall grasses
sun. wind. skin. being.

rainbow

the colour of giving up
is not the colour of failure

next

at the very end
of a life of starts it's all
finished busy-ness

dinner anyone?

there's no evidence
of my butchery of fish
folded into crust

mourning

this poem is a bucket
of dirty soapy water
that cleaned the floor

accepting the evening

quiescent
advesperate
soulfullofgrace
end of day

wrath

the whites are
temporarily
pink

red run rampant in the wrong wash