The moods of the cantaloupe king are moods

Of the melon king in green variations.

Both entered the orange parlor like nations

It’s late. History promises you a kiss
When she comes to bed. So you say good night.
You’re tired and can’t keep your eyes open,

At night, he ordered his own sun, which was
Supposedly arriving soon, they said

Not knowing the difference between Heaven
And Paradise, he called them both Heaven.
So when he shrugged at the thought of a god

I write my little song. And you call it
Guitar noodle. You write without you here.
And I call it the poem with you here in it.

The wintered trees shine white in the white sun
Daydreaming of West Indian dawn—,
Of palms that line the bright back of a beach,

When equality feels like oppression
To you, the keyboard a sword and cannon
And the comfort of being everyone

After a long night swimming
In the dry dark of a book
I heard outside my window 

And, after the explosion, made spheres sing,
A pure expression of pure poetry,
Like rising rain or a nation with no

Perpetual peace. Perpetual light.
From a distance it all seems graffiti.
Gold on gold. Iridescent, torqued phosphors.