Under a Blue Moon,

I think my thoughts

Inside a white electron cloud

Spiced with scents

Of orange and coriander.

 

Or perhaps not.

 

Perhaps I’m swilling,

Or smoking

Or dreaming

Or knowing.

 

Perhaps there’s nothing better to do.

 

While I’m living free or dying,

Or considering your granite,

Or imagining the quiet

Of a life down by the water.

 

Perhaps it’s too soon

For thoughts of little towns

And nights of mysterious smiling

In your old eyes, America.

 

Perhaps we’ll visit again sometime.

 

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