and wisps of gray dust, and a crowd of bad thoughts, and all-flies spiders, insects wake up. To do
to let in the doorway. The wind is tapering the mane with leaves,
throwing some wood dust on the windowsill;
notes and mountains of moving books, lying tilted,
the sun shines through formulas and it all makes no sense.
It is time to open the window and hang bare feet,
note lazy flips, a few hours before the holidays,
like wandering the grass, for dreaming and weaving bouquets, and
hello send the palm of the sky in strawberries.
