Grenade balloons won’t do it
Serenade by millions of clowns won’t do it
Cascades of golden milk won’t do it
Perhaps the dance of last summer is what counts.
But poems soak and bleed their ink
Heated strokes of heart cool down
Flesh so tender will wither
Well then.
I hope my probated story will last,
And that my eyes now are clear
10.1.2019
Ralph with Coffee 