Sheets of sun stripe the wall,
slip past blinds, an old air conditioner,
and pour over the mattress ends of a flat Earth.
Sheets of sun permeate; stain
waves of sheets, flats of plains
taut with fresh bedding. Above, the blankets make nature,
roll above pockets of cool air,
froth into peaks,
and wrinkle into waves against crumpling shorelines.
She’s not far above the landscape. Jet planes
paint the high, hollow streaks of cheekbones,
and above them lie hazel eyes,
solar eclipses never to stare into.
When she’s blue, she agitates into waves,
asperatus across the Ozarks.
But today, the weather’s fine. She hums
and plays God.