Something suspended in a tactile, and imaginary sky.

imagine a water tower is standing unsupported.
not held up by stilts or wrought iron legs.
imagine the trees surrounding it are polka-dotted weeds
and skeletons of things not rooted into ground, but hovering over soft,
untouched earth.

there is purple here, amber here,
and weeds and things
and weeds and things
and weeds and things
stretch into a sky that is very painterly.

the moon is black, the moon is not white, the moon is as high as a skyscraper
which isn’t very high at all. a silly fragment of itself.

flowers hang upside down, an act of puppetry.
wouldn’t children be in control,
setting the sky to swinging, setting the sky to singing,
filled with the voices of kings,
filled with feathers, and leaves, and hope is no accidental thing.

©Laura Wasserman, 2006