[unfinished]

A fifty year-old cherry tree
in the middle of a living room.
Strange,
this doesn't seem strange here.
It's petals build the sky between us,
filling the room
to its paper-door horizons.

On the far side, a woman sits.
Her face drifts in this cloud of
the faintest pink. Her eye-brow appears.
Her lips vanish. Her fingers are
wound into a spiky heart.