My figment was a fig: as in to be eaten

So much we cannot know by now is apparent


                Much to backrub, to listen from

The gore that makes this form a holiday


Have planted stone fruit in my universe

of things for safe- & beauty-keeping


            Regardless the droplet

A moonman is safe in a mountain

                            & triangle’s alight


Only what broadness is to size


Pensive stain

on the collar of the world’s workshirt

as war-torn as every photograph

you don’t look tired in— 


The genetic data of roses makes them beautiful


Meanwhile a purple cloud is saying nothing

to a pink cloud except

                            “I love you in this color tonight.

                             In this awesome wind.”