A Day of Conversation

My little girl hands

can't shake clean the wasted edge

of a line


then the curved ocean.

More hello

then goodbye,

mellow commotion

without having to try

to press away the sleep

from your wicker-woven eyelashes.

Bypassing poetry

and two pale pillars

pointing like ivy grown so thick

that it covers; it shutters;

it mutters in a stranger still language

that they call


a/n: for MentallyMigrated (he knows what I mean.)