I wish you were back with your paper crown,
so kind and full of witches.
the leaves fluttered
and fell in batches
and twice every hour
your garden withered.
that February morning
you were blurred
bawling into love,
resting resting gone.
your vegetable brain and body
shrunken into drawers.
is there a storm ahead
when the leaves fall they breathe in a mound
there are broken veins and smoke
when there is a lady her body made of petals
they grow from her head
when her tears dry to make the sun cold
when she watches her boy swinging and smiling
at the rain
with the ducks dead she watches chicks float
by dandelions in their pink-water pond
a man sleeps trapped in leaves
his eye blinks when a lady feeds pigeons
they turn into ducks who fly on zigzag kite strings
and the sun did not shiver
there are mirages
on the windshield
they spread as paper plates and then dissolve
if there are ghosts
then they are ghosts
who breathe from plants to make atmosphere
and plot dreams out of dark matter
as we dodge the drops
and the melting of pavement
they pull rain puddles from crescent moons
where minds twist ribbons through stellar oxygen
they make people
sleep through space
as empty jets in lonely birds do
I ask you where to find the balloons,
you answer nowhere.
will you follow the giant squid tattoo,
a mirage, across from lightning clouds?
the leaves turn brown
and all the while
we apologize to no one for sneezing.
babies are being
pulled by red wagons,
balloons spiral around
daisies grow old,
sinking into ground.
as a plane pierces
through the sky you smile,
our babies playing
with your chain.