We watched the oranges grow plump, nestled in their canopies while
their citrus tang reached out like the necks of newborn birds.
The lilies spread their palms, an offering to the waltzing
dragonflies and their pinprick legs, stained-glass window wings.
We watched the water peel away from the pads in full moon
blooms that tore through the sunlight-drenched surface.
Elephant and motorbike clouds passed by, screaming,
changing their life stories with the wind.
What if it were that easy, you said,
(angelfish to Eiffel Tower to maple tree)
if God’s breath could change our bones,
(church to snowplow to continental Europe)
break them just right and then rearrange the pieces;
(butterfly to book to Rorschach test)
(I argue that the last one shouldn’t count)
we might be something then.
(girl carrying an umbrella,
lest the wild sky contaminate her hair)
(lips lined with red instead of venom —
that cloud is runny at the edges like
egg yolks, and the next cloud over knows
how to cook them the way you like it)
But bones are stubborn things; we offer ours
in outstretched palms, but all we feel is sunlight.