Lucky cloud of Sevens
Mamba in the grass,
Severance of sky with weather,
Touching the ground out loud.
Making the lucky green color,
The weave of somnolence
In the trees beginning to breathe,
Brief as the theater light
Falling and the curtain rising
As a new dime.

A whole couple of hours
To sit in the dark with the money on our eyes
Like the clouds who could have been
While we are sleeping.
Deeply touching the lids
That keep us like dimes
On the eyes of the dead
Who travel,
Who gather the sack of worries
That clouds never seem to care about
Even as they touch the ground and our gardens and
Wet bodies laid in a row for the moon to snap pictures.
What a view she holds.

Earth shine,
Sun rise,
Apollo on his lyre weeping for the grass
And the dead snake of sin shedding his skin.