It all boils down to how the universe stores information. For example: the surface area of a poem, like the chewing gum that comes with trading cards, it is a half-moon. The potholes meditate. Pink dusk.
The Earth is somewhat squished, pinched in orbit by our star. I walk to the window. Suddenly, rain. I read the letter. It said: The barometer of missing socks. Always where we haven’t been, and where we will never be again.
I walk to the door. It thunders. Just afterwards, listen closely. To the reverberations. The rain on the pane.
For broken piano.
If every raincoat was a time machine,
An oboe jumping from a plane
Imitating an asteroid.
Explain this to me,
Why daisies have tusks
For a heart, and are ruthless
How the ground is green with loneliness,
With the joy of breathing its own song.
Explain the spring in footsteps,
How in the distance of your heart
You feel your heart
Take pause of the earth.
I hear the sidewalks rustle
In the still trees.
Living tigers for neckties. Under a penniless sky worth its weight in bold.