This is kind of another summer poem.
This is about as rural as it gets in New York.
So this one's called "Nirvana."
"Dank blossoms make their way into nothingness.
The pink path where we lie bear hugging the good smelling dirt.
Kids roll down the grassy hills like Tootsie Rolls
but shrieking, and the sun tucks us all into oblivion.
Orbs fly at us, purple feathers shock us
by fluttering off the screen, and landing nearby.
Are they laser feathers or feathers made by my eye,
or intruders blown out of soft water crying cocaine, cocaine.
The children sleep like capsules,
hot capsules in the sun.
Pick one up, a bag of darling.
Just get your body down to the good smelling dirt.
Here's where things with shells live.
Here's where we nap wholesomely.
Here's where the dreams come home, come home to roost."