I straighten raindrops with my eyes,
swallow wind whole with my mouth;

feel the sunshine in my mind,
forage atmospheres and find

solace in a Sunday noon.
Minute flowers, all abloom,

Sleepy clouds drifting through time
(while colors of space rewind)

each remind, relentlessly,
me through their soliloquy

yes, I begin to grow old;
Despite the truth I’m unsold.

Red, yellow, and blue denies
indirect warmth from replies

of misguided uneven light,
Savage mistresses affright

a random crowd of living things
with raucously flapping wings

Toward the unknown known beyond
mirrored reflections; abscond

to the peaceful state wherein
the slanted sun erases sin.