I am stuck inside my head,
creating worlds with glass aviaries
and skyscrapers of cilantro.
Infinite repeats of pumpkin's fancy,
scenarios in which I am not a
a clumsy lover.
With itchy fingers,
outlines get traced into ether
with all the pearlescent milkiness
of wet marble, heavy in metaphors
that suggest they are not filled
Mint flaws and chain reactions
and all the bitter musings
that exist somewhere between
eyelashes and cheekbones
still result in the smallest gift