streams rush by in flowing rivers.
golden like footsteps and crimson
water rushes past old ears, pretty girls
flick their dresses to the wind,
storms are drive(n) to the point of
an old man pleads for the corn to
stop growing-he hears it from where
he stands. he watches Oprah
and the Bad News Bears,
on sundays, he stays up all night,
playing solitaire with an old deck of
harsh winds blow in straight lines.
the poet in her old house putters about,
moving this way and that to the
tune of the wind.
this is nomad’s land, tears fall
like ash and silk.