The blooms along the
pearlescent highway have something to say.
Something hard, heavy, fragile as
a newborn Monday.
Pastel clowns zoom past me in minivans,
with children in the back,
their desperate faces pressed to the glass
like cling wrap.
There was a rehearsal for the
unification of everything,
but I could not find my third
piece among my things,
which found me tangy
and burnt like pie.
Bees drink the oily nectar,
imagine heaven swelling up
from the soil in a
prefabricated hive,
and something sweeter than honey.
The clowns roll past with
children ensconced in their nightmares.
Nothing is unified, but more
and more steel is soldered
together by errant bakers.
The flowers breathe,
begin to speak their piece.
Miniature Moon 