132: I’d like to bend rules for a stretch to wipe within a finger painting
where we get dressed soberly for a sky out west —
It’s so cold here. A place for mourning w/ subdued hearts, rare
minerals that become tree colors we paint back east.

Your eyes I love, and they usher us
where full stars by your grace torment me more —
more than half the sun, than half the glory of heaven
as those eyes become your face.