I am wearing a green sweater,
Summer for armpits and distant birds for a neck.
I have no words, but the rummaging hand in
Flowers along the road for a head.
What if you surmise the billion billion hopscotch of the brain, count the ounces of a solar flare,
And of death adjust the brim of this hatted life?
Wild apples are green, but also like the red legs of distant clouds.
I never knew my heart could be so young against the finite orchestra of stars