I like stars,
they're pretty, truly 
cruelly, in irony
ebony of the night
they undull 

I like mornings,
their colors like
spikes of paint,
faint but majestic
elastic light waves
of four hundred fifty
six hundred twenty
plenty, of wavelength

I like the cold,
rolled into covers
lovers entwined
blind to a frail,
stale reality of
everything, basically


I like your reading
preceding these lines
vines and strings
of things plane,
mundane that I
try to hold onto
since I'm a bit loose


...Thank you dearly
kindly
sincerely