Mockingbirds are in the orange tree,

Laughing at the ocean on my doorstep.

A breath of purple air sends the bottle in,

Bobbing and eroding into nothingness.

Bare shoulders

As the lighting escapes,

An album

Flanked with groves of sea foam

Lights itself electric,

Licked in gold and red,

Snapping into seeds and song,

Bouncing along the waves

Of the iris and the core

Of oranges

With salty threads, tasteless

But a rush to the fingers

And the edge to a flame,

Sunshine giving rise to six year-olds

Flying past balloons and scrawls

Into purple.

Bubbles in consciousness

Breezes of distant coastlines

Expectant and vibrating,

Silhouettes at midnight

Staring at my feet,

Tangible and filmy,

Thrumming scratches in the sky

With wings


To: The Invisible Man.