The desk,
and the second floor window
with the view of the people
passing by, passing by,
brought rain,
and words,
and the patent passage of time.

I burned through the pages
Of my childhood dreams
Out on the rusted wheelbarrow

Little red squares
With little white letters
Begging the question
With every approach,
We op?

Muddled thoughts
Muddled pages--
Winter sky
In this Texas heat--
The leaves are blooming
Or perhaps they've just
Forgotten how to fall--