If you were to laugh at the silly moon,
with your Magritte suggestion -
"This is not a pipe"
Then, I would laugh too.
Let's write our woes on a piece of linen, and
fold it into itself. Let's let the aroma crawl up
our bodies and into our flared nostrils, let the
smoke burn our eyes and touch our pallid lips...
If you were to puncture your secret wound,
and paint the gray world with
the only color you know,
then, perhaps I should, too.