i'd like to fill a shooting star
with paint drops and stir it all
together with the back of a

teaspoon anti-clockwise, and
watch the fragrant fumes lick
the corners and coalesce here;

and when the colors rendezvous like
coffee grinds at the bottom of
my burdened little cup so bitter

i'll sigh and say, "it's done, love,"
it's done and we can drink now,
this liquor of ours made from the clouds.