Those years when I was alive, I lived the era of the fast car.
There were silhouettes in gold and royal blue, a half-light in tire marks across
a field – Times when the hollyhocks spoke.
There were weeds in a hopescape as in a painted backdrop there is also a face.
And then I found myself when the poem wanted me in pain writing this.
The sky was always there but useless – And what of the blue phlox, onstage and morphing.
Chance blossoms so quickly, it’s a wonder we recognize anything, wanting one love to walk out of the ground.
Passion comes from a difficult world – I’m sick of twilight, when the light is crushed, time unravels its string.
Along the way I discovered a voice, a sun-stroked path choked with old light,
a ray already blown.
Look at the world, its veil.