Red, for a bird.
Green, for a world.
Sleepy through the mirror of brilliant things—
Something strung through trees.
A body only audible, and above it an overhanging oak, its every leaf a map that falls, kept in all morning by my hands, the warmth of vinyl, the sound of the river, the cutting of a sample with drums, the world not an object of domination but only just small pleasures up front & center: sandwich cremes, cereal bars, fruity beer, fresh fruits, journals wherein:
May 31: walked in moonlight.
June 1: fed some pigeons.
June 2: listened to this.
More about: Sky.High
