Potted Plant Out of Sink

On the brink of tipsy
No shilly-shally smile
Stray hairs of hers are wispy
Unruly wind-whipped wild

Spore borne spare change

Falling out pockets holy
Handstands falling hands full

Firmament the concrete handfuls
Mixing minds are happy
Empty

O grapher, Selen

You continue to phase us with your ways
So dark and milk combined
Making trips grafting rays of marigold cycles white, chopping high celestial tree
You charter graphs in oblong routes amend a chart and slice a pie

You charter paths for catch phrases like, “Peace on Moon” preparing a place for us to rest
La luna mi amor, your predictive matters of unpredictable mass shift weight less
Objects like marbles protected moving motionless projected to the naked eye.

Your methods of mapping surpass the meddling of earthlings
We are mere cartographers with no field book of you
Your moments of flags and art of trash void in your crater

You are the greater heaven ripped magnetic tides binding
Our bodies to your waistband while showers shoot eyes out like meteor’d sockets