scuffed blues
the written sky claims
to be marred topless
we spot
longshots & popcorn tails
selling good’s buys
before tulips close
so intuition’s counterfeits
can destroy pluck
hardly telling
curtains grime showers
old as stone
our devils descend
moded out of clutches
slightly blown on
off our veering trails
we
as they say
miss mights
wrong new’s rights
and snip cruddy hours
from the day’s flowers
but who finds its own how
gardening over breakfast
we take tea’s time and
fit propellers to our pith
don’t ask what’s a drop
to a spilled ocean
if regret’s water
and fish fly backwards
or a breath’s air swims in silt
as it smiles for decoration
then surely hands are not dishes
but
also
like sure’s glad almost tells
we argue
they just might
be spoons
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