Youth and July

Youth and July melted together. Holding each other beneath the park bench. Wild dogs danced on the edges of our perception. Grave stones marked the beds of our ancestors. The hills rolled out and back again. Free-form fantasies condensed into a ball, which we held in our hands before swallowing. Chocolate dinosaurs whose teeth had rotten out. Fiery comets of our coming home. Delirious moonbeams resting at the bus stop. Cracked glass ringed our wedding bed. White walls stretched out in all directions. Yellow liquid pooled and joined together, forming esoteric signs in the snow. Piss-colored flowers on distant mountain tops. Cancerous questions multiplied, feeding on the mist. Jewels fell from our horses’ harness, marking the paths we’d taken through the deserts and forests. Underwater kingdoms cried blood, attracting sharks. Cold weather men came in and ate all our foodstuffs. Wednesday is when I’ll leave. You can carry me. I want you to.