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I will never not love storms.
we are roiling against the  cloud cover
a paintbox of sunlight and mist
falling into shadows but we are
ever in fear of an eraser
and fruit roll-ups. If you had a razor blade
when I rip myself apart, I bleed ink
into seed pots for safe keeping. When
you tasted like bluebells 
my ever-blotched fingers will hold a brush until
the can is empty. And then you have to scrape.
-finished 4/2/2014 5:08:33 PM PST
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Project name: the taste of paint
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