divine dagger

 I will feel proud when I lift my face up to the clear blue sky and it claps me round the ears. On the spitted land we watched the biblical light, the split clouds, the giant rose bush. A section of the Bay set still by a rectangular pile of rocks, the blue was reflected there better; out past it, the white caps sunk the color to a deeper blue. Kept thinking of the wine red sea, can't stop saying that, wine red sea. That rose bush was the biggest either of us had seen, keep seeing things and saying WOW: Jupiter, the light, the lighthouse, the inside of my mouth brushing my teeth, the ring around the moon. I look up, and it falls on me like a bowl. I am curious about the camps of love, why we travel on the late train. In the kitchen I am thinking about the mole in the middle of my body, right below the ribcage, dead center. The freckle in my bed is slightly off center, this means we are related by one degree.  

In the early morning, in the early fidgeting hours I begin to theorize: we are not living a parallel languaged life. The same things, the same progress, the same sickness, the same sadness. It is not similar, a wind sock tunnels in the wind, we made a kite and flew it, I felt wild in the window. The willow cut back, no more heavy branches, no more sorrow. I am curious about the stilted awkward time, before everything becomes slugs, before we become slugs. Slugs related by one degree. 

We found plants that smell after rain and this one looks like a puppy.