The blue sky, opening like a mouth.
Like eyes.
The blue sky atop
slippery sidewalks made of steam.
A kettle boiling all the blue day
and into the night’s blue pathway,
all pushy sound waves,
bottomless elongated air, emotional labor.
Outlets for electricity
and/or
electrocution, as you like.
As you like.
A blue sky too hot,
wet leaves over more slick wet leaves.
A perception of voice,
though no chord vibrates:
the hearing without hearing.
The slippery blue sidewalk,
falling all the way to the voice box,
that unexplainable figurative encounter.
A sky too wet to plug in.
My finger plugging a hole in your voice.
My smile as an experiment. As a question.
An outlet for pure happiness too laborious to be figurative.
A smile in response to a smile, the speaking without speaking.
A slipshod effort to remain upright.
Your eyes and mouth before I smile.
Slippery blue rarefaction.
A response favoring gravity or electricity.
Looking up and back at you.
The blue sky?
The blue sky.
