Swooping over the pacific under the radar.
Lone wolf, signaling a pink coast under a midnight sky.
Water is the coffin, stars are the witness, and the sun grieves.
Feathers perspire like petals, whipping downward in a
vortex of church choirs, praising the lord
in blue overalls who bats lobsters
with machetes while punching
their wives till their blood paints the deck
with a warm afternoon glow.
Like a red giant exploding in the sky.
Pieces pollinate the places you traveled once drunk.
Can’t remember faces, only
tidbits of info written on your arm.
But, it sounds familiar,
that woman’s voice who screams as you splash
mountains of sand above
an innocent town.
Birds live for themselves
since sympathy is much better
than loss.
