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Last of summer
If I look into my glasses,
I can see the white of my eyeball,
Blue as the sky the sky below.
Below,
Because I am looking up to it
And the ground underneath
Is above,
And the grass and the mushroom lawn
Replace the clouds,
Which have now become distant footsteps.
Inside, I find the corner of my blue bedroom
To be a fictitious character.
The sound of me
Chomping on my pen
Is like the sound of a horse
Eating hay.
Back to earth
Now away
The sound of me
Chomping on my pen
Is like the sound of a horse
Eating hay.
When I mow the lawn I pretend that I live on a farm and putting myself into the land and when I rake the lawn I am gathering the hay. I then go for a ride on my bicycle, my horse of two years. I pretend I live on a farm when I am mowing the lawn soaking fresh air with birds.
There were two tiny armadillobugs on my windowsill yesterday.
I watched them
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