Day 1 – I run.
Tepid water, vital stream. Bottled envy, absent dream.
I don’t think nor do I know, where the waters go.
I know they run, pet. As do I –Beneath the same sky.
Your dreams, what are they about? Tell me, be discreet.
I might devour them, and you with it– That’s not the same thing, is it?
Tepid atmos, vial of water, pigheaded sons & complex daughters.
The rain, she passes. What little we ask. Setting sun dies.
The crop endures what it may, much as the season tries.
The fissures, he causes. The heat, it courses; better the bacon, for all that your source is.
Or stuffing and stitches, still, I could eat…
…I do have to wonder, what souls I might meet.