Thirty mile an hour winds blown
into high sky now plangent blue,
but blue is or has to be happy or
those dimples will run bloody too,
and who will spike a palpated mess
to rush a hot pulp of lotus through?
Love meanders circus maximus
sieved to only find a golden now
or a lost ivory comb implicit too
in a farce arcade gone minor blue.
Collecting dryer lint is not as
crazy as forseen post tumble,
weirder spawn of major fray
tumble through a dry land too.
Minor things tinged with purple
point the way to weirder realms,
a meadowlark at cicada dawn
trills a flushed song either way.