wind flies through coloured paper
and I take this world
and make it real.
so, the colours float on book covers,
on small lumps of sugar and sand
from my eyes to the air.
you've built a mountain where you're sitting
but only if the red brick rolls.
this is wrong because he would say
you were fucking the dog.
the wind fucks the eyes,
the heart, the mind.
dogs never smelt like sugar, candy
wind-licks before.
we don't own a dog, my heart cries.
the wild flowers pamper themselves
with small pursings,
the wind blows their scent over
to the deck
where the coloured books and patterns,
paper, thoughts, and
crayons full of sugar, wait
to unleash back into the sky.
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