“AURAL ICE CHIPS…” A BEAUTIFUL PHRASING!
Foreign silence beside fever roads:
the aroma of fog carries
the wind and twists delirium
as the red geraniums
fall to cold dune fields
sleepily in
cypress dreams
picked by
blazes
lodged to frosty solitude by the
sand hills. A blue dream flew above
aural ice chips; the dream-like
shadows slipped from dew where
the ecstasy in
your eyes is
like a fire
to me,
free.
