Brush Stroke

With the way your bangs roll down, you could shade the way land lies from the sun at its solstice.

And it's summer we're talking about. Unequal, equally unreal lives

lodged inside brown brazen eyes (and lids to match) run wild, horses wild.

Run while it's light out or run while around you is darkened. About the wind, your face,

zoysia freckled about you, hearken go the leaves, lightly tiptoeing

the sky. Summertime is slipping into the rough.

Run wild horses, run.