Notes on the Fridge Door

im

In my dream, the old florist’s face
in scarf was a stale wrinkly rose,
her eyes drops of dew, she spoke
with her petals and wrapped with her leaves
a bouquet of rain-scented clouds
and wished you a happy birthday

.

.

.

Remember what I said to you
On your sanity’s funeral,
that only a dive in irrational
will baptize you

.

.

.

Today I have made for you
a glass of sea
And a slice of moon in lunch
With a sprinkle of grilled stars
And milky sauce of a galaxy
to give you a cosmic soul

.

.

.

when i knew you for the first time
you were walking the lines of my hand
with your slow tread and hunched shoulders,
when you slipped and vanished in those
valleys of our hands where we
chase away the undestined things,
I knew that the hoax was real and
that it was love at last sight
.
.
.
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