it is at the window after many
hours where i feel peach clay
peel dropping from my cheeks onto
my mandarin string shirt
i am a fruit on a peach fuzz fish
hook dangled over a
gingerbread city of grape
mauve autos and bandaid box tram cars
circling the ring like
vultures, like pirates, like
all of us with a love of
treasure. the rain hurls
itself into the canals but my
window is dry for whatever reason
and i cannot sleep so early
the lights of the goings-goings-
goings are ice sculpture stars
frozen mid-death mid-catharsis
in an eternal reaching-out, an eternal
going-going-going and i
hang above the gingerbread
city, ripe, flaky,
clay from my cheek
shotgunned by the rain
into the water below