There is rain on the tomato buckets outside, plum cake, another small, white napkin and a blissful thunderstorm beyond the bridge of the glasses, things bruise yellow and purple, and I saw a lizard yesterday, it was fish-colored and had little black and red ants crawling frantically all over its little lizard body, the lizard had gleaming black eyeballs that looked like candy globes that would make your fingers sticky, and it was eating the sacrificial ants almost as if they were delicious hors d'oeuvres from a lavish establishment, it lay flat on the big rock next to the big red ant bed like an invading and lone ship in a navy, I watched inquisitively above this lizard like some odd and pale benefactor, and above me slept the lazy clouds and pictures we take, and above that, God, space and nothing.
I'm tired and the downpour is soothing, this sodden estate and tangle of summer scorch-copse is identical to a sinking illness and how I wish I could have wild horses and a donkey, a twin playing the violin, moments that irritated you, and moments that you miss horribly, doors and wood floors, a dog waiting by the fireplace and freshly retrieved scraps of wood, a random winter remembered in the peak of humid and hot summer, a burnt and burning sun and melting wax of candles and candlelight.
Through the upstairs window is the upstairs bedroom, the ornate ceiling fan of lighted flowerpots turning like an elegant ballerina, a vast and unique collection of antique dolls made from an alien porcelain that no human hands created, a helix-shaped staircase, a mimic to Loretta's Chapel, the Roman Catholic architecture that no human hands created, an aging and aching piano with ivory keys, the sadness of hearts and elephants killed for such unbearable luxuries.
I would like piglets, fat ones, skinny ones, polka-dotted ones and abstract and artsy ones that wear leather jackets, millions of them, a Russian mushroom farm and refrigerators full of bright, living fungus and prismatic mold, a plethora of canary and cranberry diamonds in the ice-cream like red clay, a boathouse to store stolen Spanish gold, I would like to grow pond algae on the dock and dot the countryside with even more exotic orchids that are already hanging from the silent army of trees, a rare and elusive marigold and maybe a pristine and private breeze whispering sweet and lovely things, just for me.