Filaments, mouths,
their acrylic encasements
will flight through ambergreyed avenues.
They leave fires, blurred smoke carriages
scattering, sun-borne.
-
I know
that roofs are for jumping.
-
When I first fell in love, the sky pretended to be paintbrush rinse-water.
I became like fresh Chinese calligraphy on white printing paper, laying on the dank bottom of the sink,
the rush of warm faucet water washing over my skin surface, displacing and soaking into every part of me.
(That is a lie. Love has never been like that.)
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