Touch It Too It Is Windy Poem by James McLain

And gray winter from this bed of the next light,
sensitive I know from brevity of late, this afternoon
and in order to touch it too it is windy it whispers softly,
leaves too the likes of which;
this blaze of fire
hot this child likened too it, and astonishment; the sun
and it with her laugh, when it came.

Knowledge should have been liberated of it's comfort
and poured outside,
mine ear and
we who are; we, how rough is it
and insensitive too touch off our surroundings;
which you play it deftly off
surroundings of the ring sheds it's night/light
the daytime low-end thing in color of a flame
and with the light in which it investigates is peculiar
and it all started the fact from that which falls from your sky
as tears never let you out, though in song like he, I call.

Below with above it;
full the eye a basin if and the night comes notification
suddenly without,
The tree which is inside the leaf; which is brown pleasure
of winter and it is; suddenly awake,
your finger which is rough and sensitive it surrounds my eye.
Spearhead of breath each winter is it's solecism in your smell,
and long drawn out and hot are the months 'O' my sweetheart,
before 'June' comes I ask, when will I see?

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