dirt trails
and vagabond sailors
         we have the prince of dublin
      and his homeless brother
                raiding homes and pillaging
                hearts

and my shoes are dirtier than
after movement kept from    b eing cold,
  all of those answers went
untold. it was a good move and i can't stop thinking
   but night skies, river beds
     where do we go with what the wind tells us?
because throwing bones can only last
so long. and when summer ends where are we now?
where are we when the fog lifts,
the clouds part,
the long river
of confusion
  dries up

and a week of solitude gives itself some time to think
it's a walk down the dark roads,
street signs,
green lawns,
car ports,
backroads,
and so many broken bottles
that i hope don't foretell the the upcoming landscape