Quiet dreams

are burrs at the sock cusp
cast to the oatgrass
they’ll itch your sheets 
at nightfall

 	come 

as heavy handed honk
bitter dishes comments
a hot day begged
lemon crushed in fruit infuser
but the water tastes bland.

		sprout feathers
		
when you let yourself 
roll shoulders back
broad chest 
to gum stain street,
straight back
to buildings hawking sun
you say to blank-faced commuters
give me a piece

with your stride.
 
don’t wait

to be whispered
by heart palpitate person
to your jaw
you know the scent
of their nest best;
lucidly
you slurp the yolks.

		burn 

when the car whips past too fast
and bone stilling knowing
settles–
I will be dead some day.

come,
sprout feathers,
don’t wait
burn.