pioneertown.

When your tiny lines
are properly folded you, too,
must assume you are asleep.

Comets aren’t crystals
but hot, and heavy.

I might cut my own hair tonight—
it is that kind of night.
            A three-reed night.
            A three-star minimum.

Reeds and other night weeds
melt back into muck
as they whisk away.
I hum
            please, dear bark,
            embark with me.

Or dye my hair
            Soft Black.
Brown is real and red is loose.
A three-black night
with sparkling insides.

            Oh your little soul
I could coo,
though no cat licks my doorstep,
no body of yours with foxtail fur
slips through my mail slot.

I try to lie so my hair won’t muss.
You’d see me silly,
playing that orbit—
head to sham to pillow.

I might mutter
                        hello, paper sailboat
but I would never say it aloud
to the reedy creek,
to the nocturnal weeds—
            not even just to me.