Her cheeks are pursed, her cheeks are rather lovely, her prismatic mind has seven different suns whose moon she says in not a moon but a star burning, in the shower she says, it warms her with the rivers she has shown me.

I try to tell her that I want her to stay and she says nothing. She holds the sky within her jowls. I says lets fumble about the earth together, let us be buried beneath the feet of all the angels fallen, beneath the brass balloon where the children get their wings. The car approaches, the engine purrs, the red door closes.

I am sorry for yelling I am sorry. How trivial the imagination can be, how the water reminds me of when you wash your beautiful skin, you dress as I imagine the Egyptians played with sand, you are not sandy, rather, you are beautiful composed.