when my soul is dry
its likened to float
to where it remembers you
for some days it forgets
those darkened dreamer eyes
those softly loud saucers
painting Picasso’s with a blindfold
its in the tiny little things
that hold you
like the bird today
that i’m certain was wearing a top hat
tap dancing to my ears
demanding i look up
perched there
in his morning solo
but it wasn’t he, no
it was the horizon in this tilt
i’m certain meant for me
and my soul again wet
for there in silent show
were those eyes winking back at me
orphaned dreams wandering
in every hue you painted
waiting to be plucked
a dancer,
