No intro because I’m cutting it really fine, enjoy…
Daylight isn’t real till God paints the grey away
covers it blue, calls it summer.
In England he blows the paint dry.
We laugh. Huddle closer together in our jackets
made like cardigans, say “this isn’t summer”.
The grass isn’t wet like our overdrawn noses,
we sit sniffling.
Unfamiliar are we, this green doesn’t know us
like carpeted grounds do. They indulged us
when bristles refused to comfort our eyes.
Now we are fugitives to cork boards and plug sockets
and ceilings. We embrace the safety of open spaces
and vantage points.
The blue outside can not be pinned to walls.
Back to back we hide our targets,
unfollowing arrows that lead us into rooms.