Love
is cashew beige to spin through time a portrait spun
of
webs and pineapple cords thrown into stardust skies.
I
lean against seeds of fruits and pickle green vines to
channel
into orbit a fallen cheer. Feel—to be
and ghost
through
portals to trek through pond apple groves. Such
for
concrete constructs to move through abstract lenses.
I
pitch yams at boards for darts ever to thirst for nouns
made
of papaya. It’s metaphor to speak of diamonds
bathed
in lemons where want is to mate said diamonds.
Indeed,
grin for or disdain a world where often life is
unclear
water and curry is saltless; for abstracts color
chestnut
thoughts where firebirds soar concrete jungles.
I
grind to bits sugar cane woes ever to reach for pumpkin
stars.
It’s plain for jest buried in tensions and pomegranate
scars
where hearts are threshed upon washing boards; else
a
microscope for sanity to extract but a glimpse of light.
So
more for coconut journals and almond memoirs where
words fly as unseen
ever for gurgitation.
