Eight a.m. Downpour

Skin crawls :clammy:
shore wind blows your marbles apart
one moves like a shot to the waterfront
burning off the battleaxes that
reflect you to the asphalt

Some others play bouncy with
your lower half
colourful inscriptions brand
sun and moon
your arse
and take this trajectory,
won't you
and roundabout street to
the meanings of things
mere; far below
in the bellyful of true intention
that awoke the shattered sleep
you had
sticky skin; still
winds sails stealthy your marbles, good as new.

One fact,
fantasy - hardshell,
memory and dreaming hour at a time.
candy glass knocking breezes
out of soon-to-be
sunny skies,
through your window
vista
ships that take you
without your asking-

Uplifting and knocking your
head into place-
fantasies gain ground,
slipstreams down the
vertical adhesion of your
summer skin;
they always come back to you.
No such luck at claims of insanity now.

M. Lucia