the blue awning the radius is gold the light, plaid, 

windowthing a flare sitting on my head a little

duende weeds almost touching riverend

to end this is 'our boat,' no, we paid

for the entire time, the wooden nose, aft, never

do we dance, growing upended

corn cans, green wire, orange and dull

pots, as we ever are tacit , floored

hayed forth on white nerves, a frog lands

on my check, badda bing, Sunday's one and after
one whap, forgotten, reclined inside talking, curled like a cup

on the grass, wire me rotten tins along the fence, herbs in

a bed of numbers, dogs called hugger