without a parachute, that a ladder could forsake

plucking the sun from a dot in the cornea you misbegot
in your pantry of pickled stars, freezing secrets in the dark
encrypted by haloes before swine… as you ascend 
into vigorous tumbling
out your mind...

without a parachute, that a ladder could forsake.

II

at evening it gets bright for you. something stirs a black pot
with a quill that dreamt a feather into bombs with swollen
jelly beans, gypsy smirking at docile Ferris Wheels
steaming buns in the oracular dark of a divine Circus
with all the lights

like grapes.