Mockingbirds are in the orange tree,
Laughing at the ocean on my doorstep.

A breath of purple air sends the bottle in,
Bobbing and eroding into nothingness.

Bare shoulders

As the lighting escapes,
An album
Flanked with groves of sea foam
Lights itself electric,
Licked in gold and red,

Snapping into seeds and song,
Bouncing along the waves
Of the iris and the core

Of oranges

With salty threads, tasteless
But a rush to the fingers
And the edge to a flame,
Sunshine giving rise to six year-olds
Flying past balloons and scrawls
Into purple.

Bubbles in consciousness

Breezes of distant coastlines
Expectant and vibrating,
Silhouettes at midnight
Staring at my feet,
Tangible and filmy,
Thrumming scratches in the sky
With wings

Pop.

To: The Invisible Man.