i was so full of own song that i didn’t hear hers once//she trusted me &sang

highland sheep

.

highland wind howls–
a huge wounded bear
&purple//heather stre T c h  i  N g fragile limbs
on endless green& stone-rough houses
that errect– wombs with empty eyes
we drive a big mercedes with soft leather seats
which doesn’t fit
the color of the road/deeP

chucKholes buMp the street// wooly sheep with blackprint faces
rain pours
&a stripe of blue–

“that car smells strange” i say
we pull out on the left side,
pressing buttons to unlock the hood
it won’t open
sharp wind
i put on another coat

“you need help?”
“i used to work for them– mercedes, trucks though” he smiles
finds the lock,
brushes through the task bar,
it looks good
“probably remains of a dead animal on the hot engine”

the street climbs small&curvy
“don’t you think they’re getting wet?”
“nah, the wool fat keeps ’em dry”
“the place reminds me of the last james bond,
where he grew up–”

i feel full //and empty//weak
&
drawn in by the magic of her shades
they pull me in-
to story after story

“could you live here?”
&i see me sitting with the sheep,
a sheperd’s staff//book in hand//thick boots,
“it’s not romantic– life is rough up here”

surrender
to //the sileNce
falling// circles, tantalizing, in a weird dispute
with every fibre in me that shouts city
&her pink breath
smells of all i never knew

.

Mary has us writing to my sketches at dVerse today… pick one, write a poem and join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST…