wind tossed the ship on highway midland
          intersection california sun afternoon spring
          truth speaks quiet radio occasionally 
          only like the smoke fogs up my vision 
          ‘round the citadel which at fort point 
          in golden and red/brick thunder guards
          your gate well

          here the rice among alfalfa fields
          holds handspun secret tales kept
          like the child at mother's breast
          from burning cry thrown the crowd
          by rook's wail and stinging band encircling
          as your fingering the thoughts of travel

          in distance rumb1e the truck and trailer
          hitch of clouds silent in their grotesque
          battle with uppercurrents and jettrail
          messages to men below unlike the speed
          of yet sixty on this already tiring hour 
          trek of nine

          and the hold of sandals on your feet
          as free the twirlin' stands rich, red-infest'd,
          brown-textur' d hair like wheat kernels
          fluttering hot midwestern breeze 
          on walk flatland highway 
          survival talk

          I could mold your bosom to shape
          This underarm scream but then your
          Corduroy jeans would fingerpick the music
          And my bassrun would hardly serve
          Accomplice)
                   Wither the ash