Tin roof hail


Patti smith and a bath that leaves me dry in the knuckles but warm in the bones

Donkey Gospel in the hail

Pit pat on the tin roof

I always wanted a tin roof

prayer flags

a fireplace

and plants


It has been here waiting

What is there to grasp?

Olives and cheese plates to soak in

and deep adoration of all that these walls hold

Sometimes I think

that after my soul leaves this fleshy body

it will fly out into the night – (because it will be night)

into the drift

of roads and tall tall trees that loom in shadowy highway streches of west coast dreams

I wonder often if dreams are just a collection of all the small moments we perceived happening somewhere else, or perhaps in another life, happening alongside our own.

I dreamt I hitched a ride

Everyone of us in the van were given a large smooth stone by a border security man

Mine was half dark sea blue and half white. Oblong, the size and shape resembling a small watermelon, or gourd

I asked if anyone in the ride would like to trade

I did not feel attached to mine

Everyone calmly replied , with a look of understanding,

“The stones choose you. It is your stone.”

I felt a heavy understanding, maybe small shame in my request

We arrived at the long stretch of white sand, after a parking lot of busy movement

and beyond that, a glittering sea.

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