Crags of bricktop moss
quiver in quick, quiet fog.
The sun is up,
silhouetted by bright gray
hoorays; The sadness of a
rainbow; All shades the same.

On the fence,
on the barn,
on the birch bark I carve
triangle hearts
that I fill in with tar.

I don’t know how
I ended
here, waltzing this trestle
of pine needle twigs.

You, in the window;
I see you watch me.
And I look back to your eyes
and I whistle for a wink.

You, in the window;
Long dirty blonde
tresses with a paint brush,
I know you just want some fun.

Gray day.
Gray sky.
Gray water groans.
Waiting for a sunset
that won’t feel
a nine percent loan.

Hilltop, I walk you
like my lips up her back
to the nape of her neck
where I recall where I’m at.

Crags of color climb over brick;
Rooftops and chimneys smoke
while I sit.
Meandering boundaries
where mountains meet mist;
I wish you were a river
from window seat bliss.

Traveling somewhere,
I don’t even know
destination or
my own
terminus a quo.

You, in the window;
I just want some more
of your smile, blushing
as though poetry was
my way
of tonguing your throat.

You, in the window;
Invite me inside.
Tell me my travels
end by your fire.

Oh, it is dark now;
Dark hazey gray.
Black velvet fuzzies
in deep pockets,
I clang my change.

written on 02/18/2013 by: Matt Kane