Gathering glass breath
into slushed dixie cups
chimney’d through milk wood
through worm weed
in whispers.
Marked pies with iron-crossed crust.
Heartfelt. Growing.
Red whispers.
Sliding up against
red-veined wood fences.
Slipping into character such that
white curves
twist toward
fading blue words.
Graffiti glass breath, my sweetie.
Popular chain-gang motif.
“iron-crossed crust”–great phrase! Also “white curves/twist toward/fading blue words”–drifts in my head thru out the day. This song is one of my favorites, Cecil.