These stripes --
The French of Parisian cafes
Dotted with errant brushstrokes, littered
With old men, wrinkled, napkins
Lined with sketch and lyric mixed.
Indian in the cupboard, you
Swing your guitar at lovers.
The airy breeze of shanties
Propped up against my sabal palms.
Let roads go where they lead, and I’ll
Return again to trilling birds. The song
Is the goal – the lush is in the psalms.
The voices rise when tended to,
The whispers hush and fall to moan.
And sometimes the voices sit in silence,
Sitting close, together, electric; alone.
And by a breathless sea, dark,
Rough chopped and foamed,
The nymphs of quiet youth shed light
And hide the want. Bury it in sand.