a whir is the morning of soft pastel sky.
the world’s smooth blue sweater
for the rich green of summer
has me philosophically thinking
of a spin gone awry.
what could the daytimers possibly know
of the vast riches of space?
would the nighthaunters feel confined
underneath three miles high?
could there be such a dimension
in their spatially innocuous minds?
my sweater’s off.
my t-shirt’s green.
the sun is hot.
i’m seeing things.