The sun In crayon In the sky Like a flat tire Of dragonflies. Nowhere left to stand on the moon, Shout all the stick figures Stationed there. Preposterous Its proposed Paradigms, Like thunder in the nose, Or a turn of the corner That gets caught in the throat And never goes away. The hallucinated apples Fall back into the trees To be planted by pirates. The house sits Croaked of window, Horizons for a mouth, Science fiction doves atop robot chimneys With eyes like praying monks. The pollen of geometry everywhere. And there is nothing else to Eat, only the flowers born from volcanoes.