on the lilac shift by the summer sprawl 

the pine needles are 

and the puppies are 

and the moo's are 

taking themselves to where they go, 

i don't know all this rigamarole 

about mud and lessons, trudging 

into mountainsides to take pictures of 

how damn much it hurts to be a rock

and the oblique parties of smiles i am

not sure how to respect, but i know they are 

oblique by the way i am 

in need of them, 

can't see the difference between reflections 

and reality. 

the more alive

that there can be a "more"?

i am unsure. 

bucking tempests 

i am strictly me, so 

 assume i am beyond the door. 

please don't knock :p