This is an absurd piece. Its different than my usually style because there is not really central idea. I just sat down and tried to listen to the chaos of the mind.  

Styrofoam cups and

babies rounding mountains

climb cricket hill top 

to pluck the blossoms off

a blunt in your air 

bare, a billowy rowan tree

the winter white days cloud your eyes

and burrow deep in the brown fur

that rises and falls with sleep

prints show up all over your hands

follow them down to your navel

and tuck it in like a laugh

that hits you like red sirens