An empty space left to occupy a meadow: Hey, bouquet, let’s play.
The summer sun, like a leaf blowing, like a lip swelling, turning red– in and out of life the sky darkens into rain— No birds until now.
Doing the dishes you sing so softly I can barely hear my tears
Must the morning mist, almost mystical amidst the moss, amuse muse And mistress, but con- fuse a Mr. with a Ms. and not a Mrs.?
Infringement précis— the eggs that I leave behind will not fly away.
The river, with its lilac leaves and tiny eyes, sees what we leave here.