[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]
BY RUI CARLOS DA CUNHA
Reading obituaries
even the dead live
a touch better than
dunce cap in hand, I would dare
imagine myself
not ever knowing
green grass from bluegrass, the blues
only theorize
bitterroot pulled up
in the mountains, as we walk
through the ancient hills
under canopy
as we walk, we taste the roots
rustic old barnyard
if the rooster crows
eventually, the sun shines
stellar dawn twilight