the glint of an eye,
a flash of wrong-direction silver,
“how can i help you?
oh, just down this way, a couple of blocks,
you can’t miss it.”
grey tree trunks,
wide and block and thousands of feet tall,
redwood never felt quite so bold,
pulling gravity backwards,
middle child syndrome, compensation.
bundles of heat,
red-hot burning fires all over,
consumed by a necessary chill,
from years of betrayals and bee stings
that never quite healed over.
the tall blue ghost,
haunting his little honey wife,
both long-dead and still so alive,
flicker from hotel to graveyard
to gleaming city lights, billboards, taxis.
his specter eyes are windows,
opening bright blue, golden pupils,
a glimpse into another world beyond ours:
a world where the trees are not grey,
but run the color spectrum,
and roads glisten with light,
and billboards sing songs,
and scars are not festering, but reminders
of a bright jungle within us,
bleeding and broken and still, red blood
on grey skies and trees
is a color, too, and the windows are open.