Somewhere even here – a shelter, a safe haven embraces the “we,” the self corrected and wall-taught flowers, who grow and peek over the garden fence.

(Who did we think we were, anyway?)

If we like what we see, we tilt up towards the dim sun, and grow taller than our environs to open up the gates from innocence to experience.

That tyger burnt so bright then. How now his whiskers lay in a pyle of dust as he breathed next to the untuned mandolin.

The cat’s off balance, yet anyone who can pay bills on time spots us in our natural habitats without visual assistance.

Even gray our claws prey at the ready, sharp enough to lightnigng slash four stripes onto each freckled gingerbread cheek.

Lay our power down with both poles to promote even the pastiest of the white dullards from private to sargent major.

Did you even matriculate that year when the river died outside the state of orange blossoms and drained swampland?

When the big ass bugs failed to promote those heavier than rain mossy oaks and sank twenty catfish boats, that’s the year I really died, as my next mixed tape spun out of its cartidge.

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