a rewrite: (and I don't do it often, I end up not liking the original or the rewrite) The wind blew like a dervish today, birds pitched and tangled like sleeves. He said, I drove today listening to azure ray and I saw the tombs of dry bones. Your eyes point to the horizon and you miss the weed in the sidewalk, the house on the hill, she said. No, he said, I see the lily nestled in the brown bark of the earth, and I see the nest in the crook of the oak No, you see the flag of traffic, and hear the snapping fabric of hanging sheets in someone’s backyard. You, she said, are a storehouse of bruises, a basin of misplaced hope. You make me laugh sometimes, he said,
you are my muse of numbers and pages. | 
