The strawberry is a large enough temple.
I clothe myself in doll-mirrors while the vehicles move
raindrops never touch each other.
A door floating towards shore
is where we’ll draw these maps.
My wife’s belly is resembling something
of us. Child like a strawberry
swallowed & my mouth is a candle.
When is the yard not spraypainted
anemones? You can tell by teasing them
open with your finger. My wife’s belly
is a clenched fist. If they are sleeping
you may never discover where you live.