waiting to unleash torrential.

I want to run through the sun-fired

wheat fields of your hair,

to fall exausted in the bow of your arm.

I stare like a school boy.

The quisitive hieroglyph of forehead

resting on your eyes.

Your eyes,

always on the edge of laughing,

or weeping,

I know not why.

In the light they shower

green moon surrounded

by a hazel star

in the center of which

is a mystery

wrapped in an enigma.