I sit on the edge of my windmill farm
Fingers tiptoeing along the edges of my infinite expansion of colors
And cut circular holes across the surface of the sky

I watch sweet paper lanterns tittering along the path of
My thumb and scatter across a blackened page
Of compressed rice


Wind shifts Christmas baubles between my toes digging pieces
Of my skin into a plastic array of
Dawning frost

I catch sheets of overwhelm engulfing the pillars of my understanding
Rolling down the side of illuminating neon fireflies
Lined up in a row of towering mishap

Liquid sunshine pours through the lining of my windowsill.
My fingers dive enveloped into their warm paste as I plaster on the ceiling
The limitless slips of my limited judgment.
I sift them into a paper jar and bury them in the corner of my horizon.