Ezra Cortez

Rookie (October 17,1990)

The Golden Touch

Bird flights through night highs in
Spotted white black classic scenes, it's not no wonder
Ripples rip round places ‘bove our heads makin
Roarin' rumbles that cock our necks to face the wind with
Beating eyes and chilly lips drying tongues and clenching fists to the
Flash of flashy lights and things
Like that…it's fire burning, built by cats- big glowing cats that Scream in golden dark for love and games of touch but whisper tones Then afterward by
Hundred moons' arms rising hot- the orna

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