you've got lucky hands, (a wandering mother), and the guitar is swollen for bows, but there's a yellow mouth in the exhaust as you walk backwards through your own smoke concert. you've got cinnamon breath, and the bar's reflecting. there are worms, dark and warm, in the fertile shadow of your guitar. there are warms, dark and fertile, in the shadow where the wormy feet of children swing and get set to play in the air. with ferns, and frosting on the fingers. with fern, and white frosting on the fingers where the dry skin liked to pose like a lizard and the afro picks fell from it into a ditch; a ditch of blueberries waist-deep under grandpa's white hair, moving over bluejeans. and the weather pulled in the day, with its appetite neatly tucked.