the slide of the rhyme bursts forth,
from a screen,
a turquoise dream.
The rain lifts,
unknown, as the rabbits of
One milkshake, at a mile,
we run, toward where the horizon climbs,
and my insides chime,
the clamor of cork so soft and sweet,
this texture one of touch.
Countries unknown etch themselves–
onto the map, the course set, scratched,
as the jet black silhouette of grandmother stretches like a shadow anew,
while the gutter drains to the sea.
The evergreens and mountains collide,
by layers of springtime,
where floral aromas stack in shades of unknown acrylic.
Dragged across wet asphalt,
you pull me past the crux of penultimate decisions, as deja vu rips us through