i really need a good friend mama

There was a song of gold and silver

the crazy sparrow once sang

to me on some smokey

pine-porch afternoon,

to keep the desert off my mind

now, it's a song of dust and longing

the locusts begin:

a light pink overture

in that time of night,

 when the sky wear a cloak of snails--

pliny's blood, thick as dark--

she holds the daytime still,
the seven roots of men. 

her body in the stars, 

her face in the moon

in the wintertime, i fly southward

Now i cannot really speak of winter

only of a time when the sun quits

and the locusts sing forever