(no subject)

[vicioushannah]

if days could rain (or spatter
and splat)
the colors of the trees
and houses and people would
begin to drip, and run into each other
(the way we already do).

Blending, and faded, and brown,
the birds would fall
in droopy arcs from soggy skies
and collide with the street
(a river of sludge, with cars fast-motion
sliding) and

we would lose our boundaries
(the ends of lines, the beginnings
of words, sentence-jams)
my hand could be your mouth
and hong kong could be next door,
(i could drive there
in my boat-tree-whale-star).

Tomorrow would be eternally now
and then
and we would only have to watch our
arguments drip into muddy misunderstanding
where four and five and seven
are all one
(and none will matter
but the sliding of color as
gravity dictates).