I dream about buttercream frosting.
Don’t know what “paisley” means.
Blue sun, an exposed table, a toad
stool, I’m skipping breakfast to save money
for lunch, which I take to the courtyard
and eat under weeping willows. Lately:
honey spiders and a new way light filters
through the reeds in the lake. Time is
best in the morning, when the forest
is still bright as tinsel, pine nettles waxy
and sticky. There are different birds
every day and I am in love but only
sometimes. Returning means a lot of things.
Heavy rains in the evening, the frogs are a
chorus. The birds, dagger-sleek, asleep, red
doves twist in the low lamplight of the
apartment steps. Green-yellow lights
echo in nearby water, algae centers pierced
by rainfall. I walk my bike back home,
gazing at hooded flowers and emerald
statues who bend towards me. Houses whisper
to each other, faded weathervanes bend at sharp
angles, the trail is flecked with deep blue
flower patches and small, rubbery mushrooms.
I hesitate at the bend, there is a front door
propped open, spilling out vanilla-scented
smoke, there is an ashtray shaped like a toad,
there are spells in the summertime and my very,
very coiled heart. Later, I’ll braid my hair with
leftover party streamers, we’ll go to fires, avoid
sleep during the corn festival, mend our broken
hearts as July enters and the fields grow bright.