NIGHT

Night has been hushed
that only the bluebirds
at dawn's nexus
are caught between branches
of rain shadows
by the orange trees
in a bloodshot eye of a poet
from a Van Gogh landscape
draped behind the curtains
as waterspouts overflow
in sandy footprints
near steps of the gazebo
over the tiny words drawn
onto an miniature portrait of me
by the July breeze off the water
with a rescued junk yard dog
is being loved
under the weighed down window
draping with Ivy.