Waking up to the egg yolk sun
and crystal sky
Makes me feel like a cotton picker
With another straw basket to fill.
These pictures are berries in my mouth
a kaleidoscope
of never
-ending crayola dreams
Unfurling their sprouts in the morning, from my hair
The same colors that creeps all over my skin
Is
not a disease that stains my finger tips
but a congested creative vein near my right
atrium
and grows. purple
ferns in its soil!
Such fertility has
never
been so dire, nor apt
Dear moment: dear shy,
when will you let me fly?
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