Could that be you?

It's been four hundred years,
but a cloak lies open
on the dress of some shading tree.
An empty pick-up -- crazed colors
parked illegally against a fire hydrant --
looks on,
while broken twigs placed in the grass
build their way toward a belief in sex
between morons.

Perhaps understanding over-stepped desire,
perhaps desire's memory
has over-stepped impossible facts
-- then so clear, now so questionable --
but it seems "I understand" came out,
instead of "I don't know what you mean."
All considered it was a small slip.

The cloak is brushed
and closed,
deep, about a body.

It's been four hundred years,
but a flame flickers in a darkened room.
Some foolish dreamer watches,
caught between this world and that,
as hands raise a pedestal
and candles multiplied by the thousands
break over the room
to subside before the glow of a joint
caught between two lips.

There, somewhere,
swirling smoke rises
before a rose face,
upwards past blue stairs,
drifting toward yellow strands,
and then vanishes with them
into a time so slowly remembered.

She comes in colors.
Yes. She does.
She's a rainbow.

Yeah, she sure is....