The soil so greasy
slips own my hand
yet, stays. it takes shapes
of shapeless forms.someone’s
masterpiece it is. whose?
it so much resembles me.

somewhere beneath the night’s
blanket. when owl sang the
lullabuys- he woke me
adjusting my wierd hair
slowly singing in my ear
a song of a cheap hotel.

a dream was broken
in the middle of the night
when dogs barked and
the cats cried. as
moonlight weaved in my
hair. i shed myself with care