Butterflies made of wood and rubberbands,
everywhere. Women wearing hammocks
carry two-by-fours, goad
children under the canopies. Men
stuff hunks of dirt into cookie jars
decorated with moons. The sky
is an obelisk in the sky.
I, a two-way mirror, try
to bubble like a child's
glass of milk, as in truth
I once asked the moon to be a chocolate
chunk cookie and the stars
to be rose-shaped for the legnth of one kiss,
and the sky to quit being an enormous obelisk in the sky.
On the shy and patient hillside
This town is a junkyard of trees.
The moons are never called by name:
Patience, Impatience and Politeness.
Up here, people talk only in love songs,
and people walk solemnly indoors
since rain is followed by birds
known as Certainty and Awe.
