endless waves of gray roll
until they meet with the horizon,
flat sky white as a canvas mast.
a voice of silver, a tongue of blue-orange lust
that promises to devour with hot kisses
the ropes of order that keep me here
on this suburban hill- the flick of my
Bic lighter is a fricative, seductive prelude
to the crackle of the gray chaparral, aflame.














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