each time you say
my name. The daffodils
are springing up in flutes of
pink champagne. The clouds are

making letters in the sky. They’re
composing a poem before my
very eyes. The cattails are barking
in the marsh. They’re so ***** I suspect

someone fed them cornstarch. The leaves
are falling up instead of down. My square
house is completely round. There are no edges,
even the roof does not have eaves. And

no matter how high up I look I can’t find
the tops of the trees. I don’t know where I am
or where I’m going. But whatever it is I feel
like a non-stop glowstick stuck on a pinwheel.