It smells of heat, old baseball games, a shimmering city inside. The front door has stopped banging and the apple tree holds an old tire strange children swing in. This house with broken light has lost me now when the sweet grass dries. Its scent lingers in the living room among sewing and worn-out shoes. In your silence, I grew visions for myself, and received a name no one could live up to.
Blood rises on hot summer wind, rose petals trickle past rough solemn wood.
An Indian who's afraid of tears. She charms her eyes to smiling, waits for the new blue star. Answers never come late. Look west long eough, the moon will grow inside you. Coyote hears her song, he'll teach you now.