what a something

We are too young to sit in a chair. Me and Timothy gave trees names like turbo and moon-eater. I split peaches with a little bullet and put it out. For birds, big deal. And playful lockets filled with hair, the bridge we couldn’t walk on turned to bread. Lechers in green suits tuned their violins, and the world-making we had set out to do too. Trumpets resound. Little boys duck their heads under a massive skirt, murmuring. Women church. Strange hats tip like glasses of water and the mountain we keep climbing what a desperate horizon.