Joyous are my words
Escaping through their swollen dry mouths.
My own penmanship floating through the air.
All whom lay close 
draw near to the trees,
brushing against the fine champagne skies.
He is in the clouds and the Spring
moving the leaves
To the western bay,
where I would like to die.

In the summer time, him and I, the season towards autumn,
Harvesting tree limbs,
Will sit on weak porches.
With dull, pallid paint,
Falling softly from rotting wood.
Our riches will, I promise,
Move us Northwest,
The sunshine I’ve missed and carried between each beat of my veins, Jumping with electric blood rushing to my heart.
Or, darling, if the roof bakes too hot, and the glare jumps from our window and into your sleep,
Awaking you much too early for good taste, 
We shall make our way to the East Shore, shoveling snow, too mountainous to enjoy.
I’ll sacrifice my sunsets for your East Side story book Christmas trees,
Lining our street, dozens of decorations.
Seasoning itself for Christmas time.

I am seasoning my confidence 
With good accompaniment and great muscle.
With flowery sweet music, to spill from my tongue,
To come to you,
And ask
“Where will You take Me?”