The whether is the weather,

and you don't seem

to have an office

in this world.

Are you seeing caskets

of dreams we rinsed and polished by hand

over

the curtain I've

wished across?

Where do the disad-

vantaged unplanted

myrtles of a spirit

grow?

Can you spare

giggles

I'll never spend for someone I'd

upend

them with? Can they be forgave to

the rich

of my heart?

The perfumes of living slip

through arms

I thought I had.

I want to ask

them and collect them

like ferns

for the Hanging

Gardens of Babylon.

I want to be in love

with your weather in a universe

that doesn't use love as a bookmark

in a bible of tragedies.