Screamsswirl like creamed coffee in the stale air of morning.
Lilies dangle from atiny jar of curdled milk wobbling on my violet couch.
The sunbeams smell ofblueberry pancakes and dandelions.
I lick the songs of bluebirds like thefirst winter icicle.
I see a fading moon ducking shyly behind citylights.
The glow of glittering towers feels orange with each staggeringsigh.
Little red Hondas beep while waving center fingers as theypass.
Cherry Lynn pulls on her nylons in front of her apartment's 10th storywindow.
She smudges on crimson-red lipstick and feverishly glances at ablinking clock set upside down on her mahogany desk.
Rays of sun drip overbrick walls, passing through each cracked
window with the scent of dead andburied daisies.
Trembling hands hum like the shaky tongue of a sadsong.
Cherry sits on the ceiling and stares at the stars on her floor.
Shewishes her bed were made, and that she hadn't slept
on the white cotton sheetsalone.
In solitude she often wonders what lonely loves.
We will dancein the rain and do laundry with
quarters, my love.
Black apple pie with aside of cyanide will kill
us all with smiles.
Napkins will whisper quiltedwarnings
and be hushed in sticky hands.
Lilies dangled from tiny jar ofcurdled milk
that I've splattered on my violet couch.
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