With ginger smiles we were running, like my off black skin and your pleasant hop whilst
you laugh, i doubt that any showers are coming anytime soon;
but i can see this homeless man transform into a saint
in the rain

and there is our happiness in hell and heaven as a dichotomy
that has no breach that can break our perch and our separate ways of typing
and always there is nothing but my joy in seeing your joy

and always there is this fuss about what reality, is
as seasons muster much less than what we know

and no hummingbirds living now
but you

there are no closets able to fight

or that care about fighting
the autumn cellar dogs
rejoice after much

searching, and ‘where’
nuzzles us

and where all of the worlds shall blow like armagedonous clouds

we go


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