Softly, Running her Nancy-like fingers through his dandelion-like hair, left bare In the moonlight there, under the potted plants left to die -t by not getting enough sun li -ght. colored wheels spin spin grin and also sprink le . . . . sitting and climbing the wired brim sings, blings, keeps the eyes dry and filled, with fire flies she is a poet but she had no idea that she was one, or would ever be likened to one via metaphor she stops. but moves. she does not appear to be moving, but if you look up close she is moving like a rose grows, when too much sunlight hits the floating kite, and we can limit our searching and lurching finally pinely waiting. clinking, climbing never rhyming (and yet doing it) will they ever make a crew cut blue hat red hut shut up-- she said to my neighbor and weigh as the waitor dropped his tray and lost his way Please Nancy, or if not then at least Faye-- my lost love-glove: find your way home, to me: the treasure-less throne of Rome please come back (one of you at least, and at most)