Lemonade
Dread, or fingers, or daffodils.
You don’t make them fit in.
Flipped over, crossed legged.
There was nothing to make it taste right.
Let the music be a fistful of thumb tacks.
Or a whimsical lightning strike.
Let the insects on the cove.
Discover.
They live on the cove year round.
Rummage so fast that no mountains can pile high.
Just the gravity.
As rain drizzles like a cross legged moon.
You don’t make them fit in.
The slow down, drumming feeling.
Dread, or fingers, or daffodils.
You can’t.
Dread, or fingers, or daffodils.
Are just electric banging sounds.
They taste like-
Lemonade.
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