Monday shuffled the rain’s pages, soggy and spent.
Tuesday threw a lifeline to resurrect dreaming.
After this many days of torrential rain and thunderstorm—
the sun’s image fits in a miniature dollhouse’s tiny white frame.
The velvet masquerade would still occur on Saturday; everyone wearing purple.
I sent away for the starter happiness kit, but my credit card was declined because my brain loses its mooring.
You should dead-bolt your front door—the circus is in town.
I apologize that the long-winded letter I sent burst into flames that I meant to be goldfish-orange lilies—
and also, that my “I’m sorry” email infected your hard drive.
Shit happens, but no one was supposed to bleed on shrill speed.
If it were all a mobïus strip—
people like you couldn’t jump off at craggy cliffs with lost seabirds.
What did I take you for on our high-speed chase in summer with all the windows down?
I could do all our math during any unforeseeable traffic delays while rubbernecking.
I assure you I’m qualified to decorate doubt;
that disillusionment hinges with the clock—
spiritual fatigue when one can‘t find more pills.
Love can’t heal everything—but you won’t see that in your social feed.
Soldiers lie down to drink desert stars because the poison is way too close.
Not everything can be reassembled with industrial glue.
When you make a mistake, fold it in like a watercolor painting—
just don’t chisel the sculpture down to alabaster dust.
There’s a number to call for that, a hotline for a metaphysical fix.
Later, you can return your beliefs C.O.D.
I’ve grown new enchantment from seed.
If/when, pretend—that what we’re waiting for might be worth the gauze bandages.
What do you expect for a dollar?
The paper is soft like a thin cloth, harboring lilacs.
I lost the lines you were waiting for; spent that money on champagne.
It’s the rain’s fault—its breath on the sunflowers
causing the most-pronounced blurriness—
the fog swallowing airplanes.
The snake in the garage eats its own tail in private when no one is home.
If we buy the pontoon boat, we’ll be pleasure-laden—
now that you’re reading this—
now that your focus is realigned with hummingbirds.
Frenetically, their thin wings pump in overdrive to keep emerald bellies afloat.
Somewhere a family mourns their lost vacation by the sea,
the barnacled mussel shells their youngest gathers when the tide leaves for sleep.
Without his compact leather briefcase, a man in a stolen country paces a faded, Persian rug.
Someone in a lost city shrugs that none of this matters.
There’s no grand gesture to end any of it.
I wasn’t privy to the memo.
I’m preoccupied, growing new hands to conduct a symphony of tangerine.
There is nothing I know inside.