The sun is cold this 
 morning. The moon 
 hangs 

 worn as an old 
 apple 
 on a summer windowsill

 heavy as my heart 
 when I think 
 of your sadness. 

 Of course, 
 this is meaningless. 

 Living in my
 daydreams 
 will never lighten 
 the skies 
 in your Seattle.





23 may 02
M Madison