If there is a world where poets don't lie,
where painters don't always kiss
suicide, it is here.
It is inside the superfluous fluff of a duckling
kept afloat by spiritual planks of tangible anger.
It is under the red rusted blushing silt,
between the stars of a half-hearted heart
atop the tomatoes, beyond the flames of a torch
that bubbles glass into handheld globes which in turn flutter upwards and never break.
It is here in the heat of sliced light, in the light that blinds you,
that opens your eyes.
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