Woe and Lush

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.

Your chords--

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.