Clouds take blue from could. Could be clouds are the rind of a ripe sky.
An outside eye holds all lakes and oceans in one mirror.
Hold a piece of dust at arm’s length and watch its two-dimensional twin burn at noon. Gray stranger, make your gray a happier thing. Nighttime erases as it grows over the eye.
Meteors orbit other rocks as a planet orbits skin after one magical boom.
The base is sensitive to youch. Touch. An avalanche blots the sun, erosion explodes light through the tongue.
Mountains dwarf the fig leaf an orgasm launched to the roadside. We no longer subtract space and time from arrival.
There is by sun on the other side of night, unseen. Moon is sun’s meridian spy, her blue pornography stomached in half-twilight by shady actors. A mountain is an uncompleted dream with steep sides you slick up your hands on. My.
The mountain is a world with its own weather. Windows crack only when the ingénue twirls her umbrella toward the fountain. Desire is the MORE we invent and store for the winter in shoe boxes.