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

white noise

and plays God.

White vertical sheets of sun fall like the patterning on wallpaper,

slice considerately through the ivory puff pastry of window blinds

and pour over the ends of a flat Earth

made by an old air conditioner embedded into the window opening.

 

White, vertical sheets of sun permeate; stain

white waves of sheets and an ironing board of a mattress

taut with fresh bedding. The blankets make nature,

rest rolling plainly above pockets of cool air,

froth into snowy peaks,

and wrinkle into waves seizing onto crumpled shorelines.

 

She lies not far above the landscape. Jet planes

paint the high, hollow streaks of cheekbones,

and above them are hazel eyes,

solar eclipses never to stare into.

When she is blue, she agitates into waves,

asperatus across the Ozarks.

But today, she says the weather’s fine. Humming is her way

of wagging her tail, normal actions her way

of playing God.

your personality is

a pasta maker of moods. Through it you feed

the same feelings, four five six replays

experience it an innumerable, unplanned number of times

until your finalized words play out with delicate consistency.

But in the rewind and playback, you’ve broken

the emotions you once had had

now ripple out indecipherable

a semolina manta ray of spiraled, bent

semolina feelings

here at every collapse, here

I am: struggling to read your polygraph test of semolina,

once-monochromatic undulations now chromatography

now yellow red green because

it’s all angel hair in those sheets.

The window in the kitchen faces a knobbly wall.

A shoestring of sunlight dangles past the roof patchings

between the two buildings. It’s my fishing line.

I trace the contours of the face three feet from me,

imagine the moon landing, walking along

the noseline ridges, jawline cliffs, cheekbone ravines,

and run out of oxygen.

Talk to me about anything,

the creaky trees, silver skies,

the cliched flock of birds you see above people’s eyes.

Profess to me your love for the snow,

or the sandcastles you see lining the plowed roads,

for I’m almost there, so close

to seeing the vibrancy in your condensed breaths,

      inundated white words.

Today, I caught a glimpse of a gasoline rainbow

leaked out across the horizontal blackboard.

Even under the confectioner,

it was pink ham and the sheen of fish scales (in the most beautiful,

polluted way.) I didn’t know what to do or say,

or with what combination of hand gestures to express it to you,

so I cupped your mouth

and watched you frost up in delight from your own breaths.

Swirl to me how your day was, wafflecone,

I’m all banana split, chocolate quips.

Let’s share spoonfuls and eat with toothpicks,

I’m listerine intently and pinky promise

I’m vanilla and coconut, not strawberry for you.

Thank you though, cupcake, for wondering why

I was eating only the small blueberries—the plump ones are princess food

for princess you. And another snickerdoodle thank you

for turning cherry when I said I was macarooning for you.

Amaretto you do, gummy bear, I don’t care;

I’ll fumble a thousand spoons and spill the coffee,

cream and all,

if it makes your mouth open like at the dentists’

and laugh like maraschino. But please, wafflecone,

do excuse my eyes for following your tongue,

I might be less strawberry and more red velvet for you.

Explain to me the difference

between a new moon & the black around it. Or where

thoughts go when lips are pressed together. My personal theory is that

if you keep compressing the trash when it’s full

a black hole will form. Well-tailored are two bodies

not the clothing around them. The best cinema is right there,

in the ampersand.
 

There is something to be said

of those who make their beds. More comfortable still

than the whole bed is the right side.
 

Unexpected bumps especially ruin artists in work. One can only wish

their chopsticks were tap dancers again. To feel

unbridaled happiness like having baby teeth before.

Or most regrettably, to learn why the sky is blue without making use of up.

The most visceral of thoughts

crawl up out from inside you;

they leak out from churning, pulsing, murmuring containers

           bubble up between pipes of flesh,

and spill into the mouth like a dark rotting fog,

accumulating in gaps where the tongue and roof of the mouth meet.

Pouring in like tar,

they settle between the bumps on the tongue,

metastasizing

seeping into the moist dark walls, immune to evisceration,

and contently watch from crevices gnarled by bone and skin

the pitiable transience of the spoken conscience

           a luster on dull things.