where blue edge sky
cut razor across the lucky clover forest
is the balcony sunset of the gods
whatever names you want to call them
my soft wine soul is too heavy with sins and sulfides
to ever reach their heavens
but if there is one
if must look something like this
when glittering sun
turns the morning lakes into skylight views
long ago they traded nectar for sweet tea
sit on Olympian porches with hound dogs
and talk about the good old days of Troy
the well-bred brown earth draws them here like a magnet
until sunset turns skies raspberry pink
and the begin to Alzheimer’s themselves into oblivion
and we forever lose their names to the mist
