Mon Vert

  There is always something to cry about For every meaningful verse beneath the boats that roam with us Through the earths Is but a small venture A drop of water on the mountain tops That makes a big blot on our papers Is as sincere as this riddle Left on the moon Why must the cold be as Inviting as the crackle of firewood It is as if my heart is changing Why must I rest from enjoyment Why must I long for peace.

  How many people Have gotten their minds Mute That the most vivid Terrifyingly beautiful Moments Are wasted For people who can only Dream Those who cannot be who They truly are in their minds If the strangest thing If the most dead is made to be alive If there is more meaning to difference If the deepest cannot exist And all things are to be replicated How true is the sense What is more than the implied.

The pens left unattended Roll away And the elbows Whisked From the rugged wood Are scarlet.

When the head is dry The sundial is not too far away To look at The little people Some Peddlers in their cyan coats and overpacked elephants Slouched knapsacks full of Wool and colored shirts Aromatics Which from the toe The heat blends with the scent of incense lit inside a gold pot The ashes to which orientals rise Unattended.