Matthew Romaine, p.4


Cloaked in the traipsing sensation,
arrested by the tandem charm of the burglar’s property,
tanned by the undulant curtain
a palm in me blames me.

Bubbles ascend in the quirky nightlife
like invisible hot air balloons
and they are invisible hot air balloons
a mountaineer is controlling in the lush valley.

Resorting to the purpler mood within,
slumbering in this ungovernable hammock,
a whale wakes and flops in my chest.
Right in the middle of my chest.