Yellow Sweater

I fall back onto my silk pillows and open my mouth to the moon. I swallow the hard light like it is chewable.

The sun is under a lot of pressure. 3.84 trillion psi at its core. Hot enough, free enough, to compose wild-eyed symphonies. 

I build cities from dancing ribbons, 
breathing wind into the tiles of recollection and imagination: 
cold bricks, warm clay, wet lips. 

I want to be Marco Polo, 

Lactic:
ingrown passion. rotting flowers. sweating like a clinomaniac. sweet, sweeter, sweetest, sour.  I want the sky to fall.   

remember the pickle jars.
I left them on the windowsill.  

We carry complementary lamps: 
Stars and Christmas and Pastel-Sun.  

A little light is a glorious thing,
like the fleeting harmony of footsteps.  

The sun sets at four; and we remember our candles,

“Tedam! What should I do when I find a snail in my flowers?”  I asked, holding up the small creature for his inspection.