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It is not a pleasant plan to work for the sky.
Just swim in the streams of scratching grass
And taste the worms that are creating the lossless, the soil.

This is what I imagined from Jesusfish swimming in a well lit jungle.

Sitting cross legged on a mildew scented couch left in an abandoned bookstore
I felt inactive home and heard dulcet tones ring softly.
In the corner broken porcelain protected the leaked rain drops from a ravenous fiend.

But there was no saving the sexy novels, nor the encyclopedia volumes A through Li, from a slow removal.

We earned a concerted day channeling the sand from a quagmire’s feet.
Youthful brown fishlings found their way to the sea, their deaths.
We spent an effort to have them spirited away by the waves and protection.

I have not seen any of us in years, since I swam in the ocean.

You recolored me pink, you redyed me purple
and I could smell the remains of a box of chablis
when you hugged me with apologetic chimes.

Perhaps I should have told you that I wanted a bed,
one that did not bleed my stomach as I dreamed.

Then the bear came.
He took the chick.
He said ‘eaWdh.’

We gazed out the window at playtime, onto a small bulbous rainbow.
But fertilizer became expensive in application and
stones were actuated to the surface snapping stems in two.

Later we remembered a remodeled room, with drenched bed sheets and somber drapery that obfuscated sunlight.

She sought out light buried by sylvan suffering
and caressed comforting children from shrieking
to a tender tapping of parsimony.

Mona Louise should always be spoken to if you see her riding on the train.