Some days I am merely blue
            rain crayoned on white printer
paper in quick backslashes
                        with yellow lightning broadcast
            through the zigzag horizon.

The green sun never sunsets
            on this vista as you ask:
Is lightning fire? Can we roast
                        marshmallows on it? Will you
            hold my hand forever here?  

And I answer kind of,
            and no, and yes if I could,
and magenta and carmine
                        and violet and the throats
            of lilies open like palms.