Night pours purple ink.

Night pours purple ink.


Houses jut frozen grass
as a spot of orange
dribbles over.

Streetlight halo.

Van gogh stars
or tv glow.

Radio wave tremble.
I move through
the landscape
with
out
touch.


If I squint at paper branches,
will I see pixels?
My hand the same bark.

Carbonation vibrates my legs.
I force words from under my tongue.


A sky of polished stones turns slowly.