It’s still.

our breath, our sun

our moon and sky

flows out of mountains,

each road

leads to next years


(I recorded them)

If we count the Christmas’

it’s seventy so we plan a trip.

Separation is necessary to strength

I tell myself.

I lie.

In the sky, the sun is shining

and the summer has bled to fall.

Funny that we think that far ahead

dreaming about substance,

or what ever passes our eyes.

In pages of music,

we’re playing

and remain.

I have the books to prove

that thirty years

doesn’t make a life.

6 Oct 08.