151.

I still miss the way
the sun sets over mountains
fringing Las Vegas.

150.

The way his mouth moves,
always onward in motion,
reminds me of a

colorfully done
pinata, only there to
be broken inside.

149.

Upended letters
and empty word's gyration,
such empty meaning.

148.

Dissolute flagships
trudging through the stubborn sky,
some lazy salute.

147.

The brilliance of fields,
gently turned and beautiful,
feel like so much hope.

146.

Each handshake a soft,
whispered secret, passing thoughts
between palm's imprint.

145.

I watch those hands, the
way they tell stories out from
within those rough fists.