I’m
somewhere mellow, to crochet a childhood, where
hearts
thump
rivers. You’re there, in silken gown, frowning
over
marshmallows.
I pitch a chestnut, to receive a gesture,
and
laugh
aloud. The stars are dreaming, filled with spirit,
cleaving
to
space. We ground coffee beans, lost for creamer,
to
use
milk.
I awake, to sweaty palms, a clammy
feeling.
Earth is so
vast,
to crawl through midnight, invested in strangers.
I
picture
for perfect, as rounded as squares, a bit clumsy.
I
fall,
and
there you are, chewing on a futon. I reach forward,
and
reappear,
filled with furnace. Its ink and graphs, to
chisel
an
image,
to purchase a brush. The canvas is full, to
sketch
the
margins,
and focus binoculars. You sing for gladness,
to
squelch
for
sadness, to witness madness. I
reappear, a tiny
finger,
scratching
a cookie. Ants form a pattern, to reap for
raid,
an
odor
free bullet. Life is pictures, and bright black
colors,
plus
a
woman saying, “Mommy.” I can hear a chuckle,
barely
a
toddler,
reaching for saltines. There’s water, and
father’s
palm,
sprinkling
my scalp. I sneeze, and mother smiles, a
feyic
touch.
