Oh, behold her climate—
a process of caution
that once was meant to be dreamed upon,
yet somehow seemed edible at this time.
I will taste her.
A simple taste of marvelous
was exposed so far in thought.
And at hand,
a warm charm of blue misery
assumed its perfection.
Turning that night in close,
the end of her word
was not known so well in love.
Testing her climate,
the sweet old berry road
seemed to be all feed.
Oh, jarred in night,
yet exposed on trout
for an open sea.
Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger, 