On the kitchen wall, the screen print
from the museum watches me.
The black figure in the painting
has a red cranberry for a heart
and he is
from the sky,
growing a hundred useless wings.
Around him: stars made of yellow cacti,
dried sea sponges, pointed. And beneath,
a blue sigh, expansive.
I lift the nearby window, feel the world.
That fond scent that climbs and climbs
after sleep and has no wings,
no wax to melt under buoyant sun,
no father to disobey.