singed z and solid sunlight blasts heavy on my hard hands holding crisped grasses hay in ashy white powdered if those ranging fires torture of sun again steals color and i am lost in this hardened stream bed stumbled stones blunder and i fall, dusty and withered into flash-fire fracas after long-night torture under stone heavy stars and there is no surrender in the day and stops 090428 ... nom . 090428 ... () () 090428 what's it to you? who go blather from