Words grow like cotton-balls,
In the Springfield of your hair
words, with no hands and feet
Crawling on my back
like rivers on the map
Drawing you in my pale memory
as i recall the last moon i saw.
Words, scatter as i bring them on
like dust of the forest fire
words that sweetly glance
the way infants look at,
every passing balloon
Leading me to the roads you take,
as i greet my journey tonight.
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