The clouds move while I stay put
The thing I hate about rust is the taste. Like wet dog. Nobody likes a wet dog. I don't like wet dog.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
After miles of scortched trees I've had enough
I think we all wear beards:
sunflowers and dilapidation;
bees and fresh honey that drips
like a red curtain; beards
made of polluted whales
like the ones you see on tv.
We wear them pretty, like some trees.
Sometimes beards get sick
and throw up white ugliness.
They itch like burnt ground.