visions of orange

we were once children playing at the sky

letting clouds droop in like postcards from the far away, 

ship a little thunder in, mince up the heart 

sausage it out into pretty things: 

 little lemmings leaping 

 little lemmings 

 leap. 

you can alter wine with the glass, 

mothers always seem to do. 

sunset comes, it has a brush and molten mouth

like painting and glass blowing all at the same time, 

once older the thing is shadow, older then;

we stretch our bodies into light. 

when orange is the smallest colour 

i open 

my eyes and it is screaming 

i hear, 

opulent sands, banked to the jaded blood 

of the sea, white-wash

heaven screeching at the rocks, the

twinkle of told fortunes

sifted in light fingers.

--oct,12