My tongue is blue.
My eyes do not water.
But the paper became
trees again. The floods
became rivers sanguine.
There is hope in every
child. Skins compacted
metaphors within my
grasp. The child listens.
There is hope in the tires
that spin towards north,
there is a slope that heads
toward rebirth. There it
is, the laundromat spins.
the biking boy delivers
the sparkling newspapers
while astronauts lay down
those coats that were once
armors. Marshlands thrive,
blooming with spores of new
neon glands. The air recedes
not to combust the chest but
to breathe with it. Scientists
left their notes to goggle-eyed
thinkers able to see in the dark.
Houses fenced mothers that
were fathers, fathers that were
mothers. Houses became castles
to children with meaty broths
on tables that float. The beds are
forever warm here. Much too
warm. In this planet, elephants
had wings and so did the Earth
that has regained its hold through
the promise of those who lost too.