You Were Isn't
Green carbonated arc—blip—oriental
Slice—out of walking space a—wicker
Basket—
Where we walk
Like jungle in
Pine, pitcher, cerulean and other bright
Vestibules.
“I love the bees” you said. “How they move like
Right angles
Against my ear to where
The flower is.”
Fuchsia like burst metal.
Rubbed up and tarnished blue is
Biting itself like a dog with fleas
Over the grass.
“This is what home—
We tuck in—a consistency
Like fingers—stuck through dough.”
“We make space
Through an indentation of
The self.”