Crackle and whorl,
the fire casts shadow on her
within the chalet cave.
It echoes, misbehaves,
in a way, it speaks
of endless waves,
molten rowboats,
and they’re carried away,
drifting on the driftwood
of a flame.
A psychedelic dancer, rare,
of swirling yellow hair,
insane, a fast lane,
a supernatural slur,
rockabye fame in a
blue bed of frame,
forked tingles
tickle,toppling
legs and logs
of a flame.
Conspiring and willowing,
I can hear his
sails billowing,
gliding them way
on a river ablaze,
serpentine vine and
wheezing waterfall,
they experience landfall,
the intense incense
of a flame.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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