the little radio in the tower is often too hot
melting to a battered cream color in the freefall of talk radio
latenight sniffles and glasses of wellwater with dreamt scenes
on the sides
in threecolor printing
sightless in the kitchen window
the dirty screen detains dawn in the oaktrees outside
green leafy toreadors frame the barnlot stones and mud
sleeping in the chill distracts the muttered syllables of parting
everytime i wake up not knowing where i am