Poetry

Very grim. You
promote the copperheads.
Lakes go dry.

I cannot stop
thinking, watching incessant,
the rains.

Waters send― the
crimson clouds to hide the sun.
Now that ice melts.

Become genderless.
You are walking on a
sleeping volcano.

Where the three
rivers meet, I stand on the bank
to watch bipolarity.

We are not yet dead.
Some wherea flutey whistle calls.
Follow the flames.