Brown sky cast on skin

You're my little coffee bean. Press my lips and lace my blood with caffeine tremors in the quick of predawn.

Extra credit question

When the sky falls from burning second story rafters, pinning us beneath, what message will we scribble in frantic thinning inhales?

Those who with oxygen will burn

The cardinal must be like a flame on the wind, and so she is never surefooted and rarely alight. She is a songbird's subtle language. I hear your restless voice rushing through the open window.

Rain song

I let the rain soak in my skin. I am a pop culture sponge. When weather presses down, we bear the weight by
57 percent while an uptempo love song plays quiet and sweet under the torrent.

Sleepy soujurn

Spired lighthouse mothers in our ships on cresting blanket. Weaves needlework clouds pregnant with storm by flashlight in our bedcove.

Fixing the Music

Shrieking feedback drawing blood from my eardrums, discerning no music from dissonant anger. Waiting for a sign from God and never getting a Goddamned note of sympathetic score. All I can do is turn to the audiologist on my knees and submit to her care, and ask her to wait a minute before fading in the softer melodies, so we can appreciate our silent stares in deafness.

Out with the Tide

We should go to the ocean more often. Landlocked ain't our lot, be sure of that.