The future tastes like papaya

ripe belly full soft orange.

In the future I will love the sweet-soap taste, scoop papaya under a golden full moon under blooming peach bougainvillea. My words will not flit from bloom to bloom but beat their wings, remember

the fire ants under an equatorial sun and Canada’s long highways blinking red, red, red – not one car moving – in a single dream.

Before the papaya ripens there …