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Each night, I consider fire, the bleak rationing of love. A purple balloon lifts me above the cumulonimbus potent with a threat of lightning and were it to strike, and every tree flame inextinguishably, the cigarettes in each coat pocket would also ignite spontaneously, so perhaps nakedness, perhaps solving love without clothes, would lessen the risk, simplify the emotions. * You are a gentleman of the mist, you take pain and launch it above the stratocumulus, and birds, and the sun would shiver, were it an orb of flesh and emotion, were it motionless and sad. Each molecule of your sight tumbles from your eyes– * & language rains down on us soaks us in vintage champagne. |
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