they are made of velvet green, these rolling hills of grass and flower
littered with lust rimed boys and girls,
they tumble in the slopes
stark jays in the nude of clothes.
there are no tinted silver of streams to reflect our eager faces.
and there, in the corner sweep of the den
is a ladder of spun wood and silk;
so we climb, you
upon the top rungs of a creaky foundation.
i (or is it her? is it you?),
peering hesitantly over the top
and the gaze sets light on a singular, ancient bathroom stall
tiles defined by speckless grains of churned dirt
creamy, stamped in
smoothly and with more grace then the drops of milk
to a calf's hungering mouth.
the lukewarm haze of wise and aged stained glass
windows mirror
the walls with drenches of colour.

warmth in six shades of sun flood our cores,
and we seep candy flavoured, grapefruit orange.

But the sky has exhausted to a heartfelt gray
And we, anyone
Must call in the rest of our history to a catnap for five.