It wasn’t a painting,
(clears throat)
it was a bunch of seaglass
and I put it on the paper.

Distinctly amused, I saved
a photo to show to friends.
I did that once or twice.
But then I got bored and
watched a video on blimps.
They are like the trucks
of the sky was the hypothesis.
I have my doubts. For one:
blimps look like funny almonds.
Look, my love! A winged tree nut!
Lowering down large infrastructure!
Yeah right. Get real. As if. And

yet. It seems a boon. To be
in love in the age of blimps.
Float weepingly through a cloud
shaped like nothing and the smell
of your shirt on my shirt in the
daytime, wrinkled, an apricot
in a bowl on a table in the woods.

The table is missing one of its
two chairs.

The world’s foremost
detective in table-chair gambits
holds a pressing press conference
outside a printing press factory.

We tarry under the same market
umbrella. The rain results
are in. The sound sounds like a
forty-flamingo-disco. You react
and touch my arm.

Everything ruined
is instantly not.