between gossamer 

summers like tiny    bells 

hum sound iterations;       

why such tiny  breaths in    

cicadas     

           capture our focus.

and you could stare   for

miles about     nickels, 

seeds,

pens tees       and clubs    

from   god    yet

there’s no     sound

if      there’re no   lungs.

and i could cry 

        destinations

further than we’ve  gone;

this valley       path   runs

down rivers        streams 

rapids a     glaze,

like luck snowspots,  like

cherry    thick        cheeks

frostbit from   arachnids,

sweet rainbow   sherbert

mosquitoes;         sour

is the heart       

          sometimes.

and we could stare    out

telescopes, 

                 kaleidoscopes,

creepy crazy-eyed  tigers

existing without  holiness

or Life or   Death or

concrete vision;         who 

paves these roads  

anyway.