Summer

I want my street to crack like a smile. I want to polish every car on my street with what is left of my hair. I want to be dazzled by glass, to say: this glass is the cleanest it has ever been. I want the glow from the five mirrors in my house to admonish the sun. I want to see the perpetual proof of colour’s reinvention, here, on the street where I live. I want to grab a rake and turn the soil in my garden where fruit have begun to swell. I want my juices to run like ripened fruit. I want our juices to mix. I want my skin to adhere to his, creating an eight-limbed organism that can roll, inexhaustible, day in and day out. I want a new space and time for inventing endearments. I want to turn him into a prayer.

I want, therefore, a few extra hours added to each day.