at work these hours, I think
of his sun, guava-pink, which flows
newly into windows
hamlets beyond the rows of grapes
he toils above, escapes
the world with words he shapes of mist
scaling tower-tops, kissed
years ago in a twist of sheets
from new york city streets
he gathered the backbeats of rock --
from southern skies, a flock
of purple martins -- lock of hair
freed from their beanbag chair
voodoo dolls made of air, these things
caught in pendulum swings
of time grow back this spring in odes
I chant along back roads
his shout to me
������������������������explodes in pink


� 2005 by PJ Nights