I want to spoon your straw into clouds. I want to
cloud your panting paws. I want the grain elevators
lit, a roman candle to the bushels-a-day
coots in their co-ops. I want the soapbox
step up to the hot air balloon
stopping somewhere between arch and horizon:
That McDonalds on Main Street. I want to take elevators
down the silo , that is to say, lifting me deeper,
damper, darker to the ground where my wants
meet my wishes and that fabled outlander
drops a stamp of enlightenment. I want
hands to cup liquid grace. I want
a ribbon at the end of the race.
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