the synæsthete’s love poem
Yesterday, blue tasted like licorice.
Even wind chimes caused dizziness;
an ache of paper lanterns rotting
from the acacias. Perhaps the L
in my name makes you sad,
evokes a film where a woman
waves from a train. Or how
this horizon wants to be a hymn.
If you listen, you can
hear the holes in the alphabet,
sounds lit by the lamps
of our bones. Perhaps
with this page I could fashion
a boat or a very convincing window.
A dress made entirely of vowels.