Yellow Sweater

The boat moves through the water. 
It cuts the sloshing, the sparkling, 
with clear direction. 

There are people standing on the dock. 
They peer into the ocean, 
but they only see
their shoes. 

When it is cloudy, spring smells like cinnamon. The flowers are spicy in the cool grey. Exhausted, they tell stories of their time in the sun’s exquisite unrelenting grip. I lie on my back, watching green dance to grey.

What is a number? 
The question is so abstract. 
I have spent many hours pondering the nature of the imaginary, 
letting it fill me up until I am too stretched to be solid. 

Standing in the grass,
the sun has already set. 
The pale purple 
the deep blue
is framed by your lashes.

We have already unfolded, 
panting from our cartwheels. 

You are exquisite. 

In a smoky late night cafe, I wrote about love. I was full of the moon; I was full of romance. My head was spinning with a fabricated memory: feet kicking up dust in the midnight square.

Our brains are sculpted by the eras and cultures in which they were formed, therefore we have vastly different ways of processing contemporary experience.