West to West Collection XII

Sweet potatoes eating olés

she's a better-looking Monday

oh, tell me, if we ever met, the same

you, whose a ghost’s path’s sawed name

their only ole bent, still hidden carapace.

But, I think you love me

oven I'm in, a sweet berry

a spread-eagle breadstick

but you soon cut in, slicing

when you mean: I'm ready

so, it's a centre of memory

lent in this sense of beauty

I'm whetting that beginning

where I come undone in few

when you see my beaut pieces

to take them with you, running

as you ever do, my tumbleweed.

With that boy-critter gone

the walls took a front-mull

their colours hung blurred

white saw, loved its default

but black took of its blurts

so, it was sod a dog it shod

and this, she wore to his loss.

Oh spaces between whims repel

so staying put presents the best

as if the worst pretends to end

with nowhere now the sentence

doubts withhold their neglect

and those in dashes I visited

awake the story of her rent

for she paid what never left

and made the streets to beg

made no home, her doorsteps

with her help, my nights slept.