Can you speak to the west bound wind?
playing gypsy games
forgetting towns with beautiful names

a girl on a front porch
out in the somewheres of America
she tosses stones
traces lines from one star to another
with a straight finger in the air
the breeze catching her scent and her hair

I felt like supermarket music
she was pure headlights
stepping alone into the streets
dramatic lighting of a january 7:00

I wake to the sound of
wind forcing rain unwillingly against glass
cracks of daylight and house settling
rolled over again

her tungsten eyes
in my celefane dreaming
this moon some cowboy
shot in the sky

I've searched thrift store
after thrift store
for a warn in leather hat

tattooed/hands/running/through/hair/
then/stealing/from/wishing/wells/
not/for/the/change/but/for/the/dreams/
drowning/
there