You often says things in which
I can say little in return—my growing

deficiency—and the sky turns yellow.
We lay a blanket in a field in the middle

of nowhere and return to find it
covered in earth that cannot grow.

We lie in this space and stare
into a sky filled with clouds that are

lined with mildew. It begins to rain, and
we take in the moisture

and softly blossom with pastel-
colored flowers. We lose the ability

to speak, to use our peripheries,
only knowing that the other lies

under the same sky, forming a hill
in the same space. Like-minded flowers.