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Fuschia, or, For heaven's sake I left the light on by mistake

Saint Francis translates
metaphors and hogs
the covers

on Sunday mornings,
yellow apple
afternoon haze

between my thighs
and bedsheets taste
like glue. Maybe

that's where we got
surreal, you leaned across
the bar to me and said,

I hope your dog
runs faster
than he laps.

It wasn't funny
when I woke up,
but that's what history

is for. I can't talk
to that guy in my dream
because we're going

hiking tomorrow, in the middle
of the night if we pay
the man in the silver

boat. He thought I was
a Pisces, fishy
swimming dreamy girl

I thought he was
a dragon, blowing
smoke and flaming air.

Something about the Eiffel Tower
and we climbed on a bus
that slipped into the waves,

a jellyfish, a manatee,
a James Bond style rotating
white vinyl circular waterbed

bar, just you and me
smoking coral reefers
watching the sea weed

pass us by. Enter mom,
who offers paper
and colored pens

so we can draw 
our guns. I've got
a massive AK, hoisted

shoulder to hip, gleaming
pink in the night, with bullets
hand-crafted from chips

of the Berlin Wall, blessed
by the Pope, and heavy
like foreign films. You've got

a pearly one, a golden .25
that spits out fireflies. We pack
our pistols, launch due north,

and now the bridge
is weak. I breathe,
and splinters fall

a screaming, hollow
hundred stories down
to flaming bushes

burned by overlords
or snakes who threw
the party that I'm at

right now, or yesterday,
but both because
my car won't start

and when you tell me
this is nonsense
I can only answer,

Fly. I blink pink pistols 
from my eyes and smell
the silent stuff that morning

cooks. Like Highland
plaid, my thoughts 
converge in navy,

hunter, oxblood,
saffron, chestnut,
cherry, and ink.

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