From here, there's a whole sky spread like blueberries and jam, like fields of stars and I'm sprinting across them, east, each a little posy on the palms of my feet. or some angel, thighs apart, grape lips, her shoulders tossed, wan and against a pool of clouds babbling nonsense like a child, or an oil painting of the sun over Rio, or over Borneo or Milan. She's lifting my face eyes not even meeting mine because they're so far off and lost soft and lazy about them the reflection of turquoise is earth brown.