It brews like amassed anger on an inflated day.
Pointed up in see-through,
the square picture with a square picture.
I, in my stupor; you, through your thoughts-
plant a lucid exchange of painted fog.
Far away, I own many a place.
Here is home.
The corners have become large hearted.
Its face is ours.
You ask yes, I agree
and forget,
and say no when you talk of smokes.
So excuse me
if I brew some coffee,
even if it’s a state of mind.
The bloody dagger
only but cuts a lemon,
because up on the hill
sweetness lay in silk.
