Yearbook (7.1)

My bed is full of balloons, here in my new room in my new house. I looked up from the letter I was writing and there you were, bare legs, bare arms, a rainbow dot on your neck. I can still hear you breathing in the bedroom, while things get blown up outside, green and pink and sparks against the leaves sending up shreds of smoke that drift on an updraft through the tree and over my head making redtailed shrieks ekes spreadeagled whiff to scrub my sky out and graze the faint dipper’s handle, pinkish in July 3rd late blue evening coasting along the inner shell of the sentiment, the early late shebang, this thoughtlessness is all the world takes, taking time, talking it through in blips and grunts that shuttle all such days one rippled weave. “Smokin’ Joe’s” herbal cigarettes, and whiskey, and a fire, by the bluish-gray Dosewallips River. You carry it around with you.