Tossing a fishing net, I attempt to catch that shade of rose in early summer that tries to explain the sky.
In the envelope was a star. . .to steer by.
In order to write, one needs a sea of one’s own.
My bird speaks well of you!
How is it with you I’m good at chemistry?
Let night make of it: love. Let daylight make of it: friendship.
At work . . . skipping stones.
…and I took the star less traveled.
Maybe death comes when God runs out of rodeos.
Each of us can count our lovers on one heart.