And now: A poem I wish I wrote

Floating Gardens
Joseph Ceravolo

Sailing Sailing
under the creatura ridge,
and this less or more than obscure,
obsequious life follows the lives
of flies on beach.
"I'm so happy," I said to big tree.

So we stand
on a ridge, it
has corners and we
wait in corners
of excellent summer,
unconscious manifolded igneous
summer,
and the flies on the pillow, sheet,
and cactus colored window
buzz the chandelier great white weather.
I'm far from a window and
feel the multicolored pushes
through open window self .



[That space before the final period's got everything in it, don't it?]