Pitcher

ribbons of magic tales

float'

cross the lake,

stories of fishermen

drowned in the wake-

their ghosts have

all gathered,

to stare at the

moon,

trapped within lim-beau-

sun-rise will be soon..

wrecklessly dangled,

and close to an edge-

tinkering with

gardens

and songs

of

the

dead--

writing and wishing

to be far

away,

a new hidden space-

a new hiding day...

follow the footsteps,

then speak with the

damned--

chase a new rainbow,

or make an old sound--

don't stare at

the crazy eyes

high

in

the

sky--

and don't climb in

wishing wells,

'lest you should

Die...

Beau Jeep