Darkness inflates over a riotous moon, I say this because: its hips stalled in beauty, trips of gorgeous length. I would have to evaporate if I explained anymore. The symptoms are subtle, of various blues (light blue, detergent blue, blue of teeth, and teeth of blue) and blues (mustering evening restless behind the few opaques left of the afternoon). Living tigers for neckties. Under penniless sky worth its weight in bold.

A more productive scenario might inherit rainbows, the kind of wind to take up lassoing. A garden on the moon, wing spans that reach from star to star.

There is so much strangeness to this day, artifacts of happiness I’ve uncovered: like asking clouds not to comb their hair into astronauts, it can’t be done. The rain has thrown away its pants, bare legs hustle in the wind. Butterflies drink the same wine as volcanoes.

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