n is a g of the c walking peeping like his prother kaukan whose lost in islands of imagined para-dices panting, pounding, desperately waiting hiding in the nut-less tree
dear matafele peinam you are a seven month old sunrise of gummy smiles you are bald as an egg and bald as the buddha your thighs that are thunder and shrieks that are lightning so excited for bananas, hugs and our morning walks past the lagoon
This wondrous world, my God, a book I deem, Wherein the Author's heavenly glories shine: The petals of the wayside flowers meseem Its pages, pencilled o'er by hand divine.
America, give heed: this is no flight of herons nor of angels… Those are wings which cover the broad skyline, piercing the clouds, challenging the winds: