Alright for sons of mothers

to sleep in the arms of soft fog.

���� Arms wrapped tight like cloth.

Skin warm-heating life.

 

Copper cream barges my core

and tells me everything is alright.

 

Brass fades brown into solemn design

and soars me high above.

����������� City

����������������������� Clouds

Crickets creak in sultry garden growths

reminding of lazy memories gone.

And new wishing stones

����������� Skipped for Love.

 

8 April 2004