An SUV's growl pokes at embers. The hawk's drumming height Speaks of more than liberty. I'll have rolls of milk hued rocks Splashed with sugar like Balls of puff puff Or maybe a barge striding Azure and cream. I am not certain. My gnarled peasant feet may be wiser. But it cannot tell what it wants, Only what it feels. It knows The way an onion stung eye sees. When we press against the sun For shelter and a refrigerator's buzz, Strung out, wiry old men are born; And bottomless green gashes Sucking at life With passion and desperation. The mockery of wings is crushing. But that is not the tragedy here. By Tenane
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