trouble's bicycle;
seal eyes are wanting
to leave dark charcoal in stubborn hair,
a brand on her lungs.
Waits by mute guitars
to catch hope in a pillowslip
as it floats by on a wind,
and whisper her desires through keyholes;
they have gathered dust
under the rug.
Pencil-tipped fingers grasp at peace,
and don't shrink from those who dare to laugh.
Searching deep for the rebel
and finding there is none:
only hummingbird jars
skipping on velvet clouds.
8-6-08
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