Listening to Hieroglyphics and talking to my muse, who may be a girl with a cigarette holding a Coke by the neck.

Reading as though grass
itchy beneath my feet would
punctuate the beat in my head - innumerable -

we gotta talk, moonsister, it's
not the sun any more it's you
buoyed on night time grass

and soil
punctuating the beat in my head I may
melt but you
watch it all

petal from petal. Imagination I imagine

you ten million pinwheeling
colours we'll
write to the beat in my head turning to

you moonsister growing full