this one.

the phone sits untouched
the wig lies on the red couch
what a halloween the british man on the porch says a gang of ghouls
why is he wearing an apron i stand
on his porch steps creaking with use
the camera flash is the sun
on the window
the leaves sit
the dog
lays
I write unconciously very conciously
the exuberant winds
swirl only when pricked by the thumbnail of time
causing me
to watch as sun and
rain elope on the horizon
when in a plane the horizon seems like a new string of silk
to hold away
from the birds
that want to wrap it around your waist
as a though wants to wrap itself in
your colorful words
powered by your imagination of.