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Is This California—

The instructions say add thread
so I add bees knees and butterfly teeth,
turn on the machine and research metaphors
for sleep: I take the sow's ear pillow I made
from the pillow machine I bought last week
and think about possibilities since our kiss.
Socks made of meadow lark wings, pajamas
made of pajama  things and the moon skin shimmer
beneath the cotton trimmed trees. This
is just to say I think you are a swell
simile for the sea, the silk brine of lip
and tongue. The blue line leveling
the sky. The drunken touch of waves
on the boney shore. Is this California—
I turn sharp against the curb and crash
into the sun, like the hot wax-winged
fellow, like our wish of water and sand
like our wish of something not possible
yet, not realized like the tip of land
on the edge of something big and gone.