That can not be a hour that vanished into kisses 

watching the moths snuggle around a fake moon

curtains scratched by cats and stars

a glimmer in crinkly hair 

on waves and winds

as I get lost in the sadness of the song

the blues lament 

morning is floating between gold light streams

I have devotion for things that fly 

I feel like Picasso proving that he can still draw a circle

I look to find my reading glasses.