The secret notebooks write for themsleves

In our hands, brown fingers key the dream

The e was blue on big pier, a guitar moon

August often hears that same silence with us

Twelve years ago it was white and North Tampa

The night of the L.A. riots between TV and flesh

That was the year of gardens, several flowers

The beach at Indian Rocks is now December

The entire state emptied for the coastal drive

The motel we embarked from across the intercoastal

Even with automatism, waiting for the color induced

Take it for the rest who left, whose form she took

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