I want the clouds to be
cotton candy and taffy soft in my hands
I want the winds to be
sweet with sugar, nutmeg, butter, cream, batter,
and made only with essential ingredients
grown out as far as possible
for as long as possible
there is a white fence and some thorny vines
to pluck as well
since all of our sweet days and nights are liminal
because we taste them but we may not register their capacity to
the currents
silent magical depths
the sweet smell of peony readying itself for bloom
waiting for the petals right underneath
unexpecting noses.
when bubbles pop, light shoots out
all escapes
steps and sidesteps
barefoot at the feet of a sand castle
we put bodies down into dirt
tectonic plates swallowing ditches
looking desperately for a knife to cut through the reeds
where there could be an office where
there could be a kitchen where
they walk indoors and the seasons wash down like gulps
wrinkled post rain clothes
fingers skimming the edge
