A fake sanity with its wisdom
enlarges the space
between the coarse land of craft and sea of emotions
for stress to walk with soul in sleep.
A dope for the last hurt in hurricane
at burning lake
where I was collecting the black seeds
from the fallen tree of love
near the deck of house we built on waves.
Do not corrupt the innocence of sky
enveloping the rage of sun.
The call was imminent
from the dead leaves of autumn.
One day the anginous waste will become seed vessels.
