completely to pertain to how the naked
pink man hovers in a baseless yellow
beach chair with his two feet seasoning
in blue: the sourceless water slaughters
reason – which, despite that it abuts a slew
of background dead amorphous depthless
green, no less conduces to the strangely
sweet serenity and solace of the scene.
Is this a dream? You aren’t sure. Pure
surrealities procure you, snare you, take you
places so entirely beyond improbability:
nothing you are feeling could be possible.
You are a puzzle in a parcel on its way
to fathomless illumination – smelling, hearing,
seeing, tasting something like creation.
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