Let us push air into our splenetic bubbles,

until they contain brimming worlds

we can plunge into—blood orange

skies tinged with lavender beyond the horizon

we’ve never traversed, across the line

we’ve never transgressed. Time to purge

our stampeding litanies, pistol whipped plans

sutured to impossible futures, manacled

to metal desks and manicured lawns.

Be with me a forest of deciduous trees—

lizard wrinkled, century of rings rising

to silver-streaked clouds.

All our granular wreckage, our tin-pan scraps

are bursting with veridian tympany.

Light the cosmic fire, feed it with lungs

the size of ships’ bellows. Spark celestial candles.

They will cluster into amethyst constellations

like the lilacs we were born to be.