Dear
Tulip,
Life
is yellow, even a pink tuffet. I melt toffee for
cream,
buffing a curio. I gander for love, as fey as cupid, as
grey
as a first kiss. There’s pressure—for kinetic time, a twinge
of
an artist.
She’s
sugar plums, a famous pouch, to seal for goddess.
I
wander, to capture love, to carve a torch. We fall, even unto
a
cradle, to stare at plastic stars. I remember for color, a critical
baby,
where blue is masculine.
We awaken, tugging upon draperies,
resting upon a
tuffet.
She sails a fork, to puncture a futon, in a teal two piece.
We
grin slightly, to grip for winds, a chest of dreams. There’s
coffee
grounds—upon a kitchen floor, where poodles bathe. I
look
to disappear, sitting ere a shoji screen.
She pictures closely, to glance
deeply, an hourglass of
particles;
for so many parts, to piece for pebbles, a distant self.
We
challenge fortune, a wealth of scars, a sky of dust. We love
it,
a soul of comets, an unsightly cost.
We vanish, to absorb a gem, ever
embodied.
