Green Peas at Stake

Cold Dawn

The sun drills holes in the skyline
for tipsy lights to swagger in,
and I wake up from dreams
destined to be untold.
I should hide them in the dumpster
and cover them with amnesia
so they don't reek.
Nothing captures me today
although I could do a million things
to betray any illusion
on the horizon.


For "Poets' Practice Pad"