14/30

Accept the mystery
that we dream in watercolors.
Vast pigments
of tombstones
facing against the sun
near abandoned
tuberculosis wards we
explode in false
lamp light.
 
A dab of soggy words
falling from mouths
cascade a truth
where
we can only grasp at
the capital letter places.
Blue Lake sounding the nicest.
Our fears  carved on the
oldest Redwoods
we can find past
no trespassing signs.

I have only a toe
in the waters of
what I understand.

-sonja lynn mata