April 21, 2005


I only have to surrender
the tip of a pen
and a deserted plaza
bursts vastly with balloons –
sky-borne globes
swimming in a universe
of linen grass,
and charmed voices
who cling to colors
that move in strings
of candy-colored laughter.
The light, too, would come blinking,
catching not winged moths
but a pair of eyes –
dancing and fluttering
on orange and red dresses;
joining yellow to yellow,
white to white,
and with sudden sight –
a room stretching infinitely

on an island of fiery capes.

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