hills

ritual

pattern

nourishment

on the top 

of a six digit blue and white car, 

smoke twirls and dances

as if born unwavering.

ahead

shaking vehicles 

with no light

knowing of presence–

passing, behind, and in-between.

swollen eyes for separate

matters of emotion or

none at all.

beats of hearts and ears

radiating, addictive, and dictating,

to the sounds of  nestled harmonies.

etched reflections 

carved into the moon,or 

stamped pictures, 

wavering by the midnight wind

against the cold gravel. 

Looking up at us,

looking down.

between bushes of crowded darkness

and parted trees above consciousness, I

sit.