Make the Canvas Bleed.

A torrid voices of imagery
A fresh green crown in the grass.

Dapples lightly in upturned voices;
The birds sing songs in summer
Cows low to the low red moon;
I walk solidly on ghost footsteps.

Old doorknobs bend in June;
A baby suckles on a mama’s breast.
The cattails select John’s choices,
We don’t know if it’s a bummer.

I try to rhyme; we won’t let it pass.
The meadow is green in the cold snow.
Volcanoes spout ash from below;
The cold wind blows.

You are the picture of a photograph.
We realize the still sound of the
Brownstown.
Tomorrow is not a bent spoon.
I am alone.
Birds flock on heels in June.

The wind is a sixteen bottles of symmetry;
You aren’t mad, but you aren’t walking quietly.
A torrid voices of imagery,
Talks to me and the cold wind blows.
You don’t know that I am angry.
You don’t know that cattails bleed.