the sun shines differently when I wake up in your home
or rather, your friend's home, which you co-inhabit for now
but rising from her couch I see the world in a new light
as a prettier thing than I would often imagine
but what respect should I apply to that? as though it were
something quite so literary that it was subject to analysis
from the casual company to your homemade espresso
to the dinosaur bong and to the perfect culmination of you
that your room and your preparations so candidly are
I stipple the faces of some anthropomorphic wild flowers
dancing about in an exaltation of all life has to offer, and yet
dancing like a fool never felt quite so natural and undeniable
as it did in that sea of people that was only composed of you
brilliant red with white polka dots, your boots stained with red wine
you and your moonwater latte, the camus cellars bike box
and the smoke from the pineapple express that got us home
the time I spend with you is a painting of vivacious colors
never before tasted by the bristles of the brushes I've known
you wear the pair of earrings I carved and wound for you
and you laugh and you move in such a terribly inhuman way
that makes me wonder what sort of being you really are
and how I somehow managed to be called your friend
perhaps it's simply me, confounded by the intricacies of life
of which I've previously been dismissive and ignorant of
but to me maggie mae is someone unabashedly divine
someone so intensely real as to have surpassed this plane of living
who drifts in and out of her compliance to this physical realm
and sometimes, when I'm lucky, she shows me how to see
those things so plainly in existence as something supernatural
