Mondays are blue.
Tuesdays red and pitched at g-flat.
Sadness has the aroma of peanuts, toasting.
Snow has the same tugging glare as a foiled balloon.
On Facebook, this girl I went to school with memorialises her babies with balloons.
They merengue their bright skins unleashed against the slick blue.
We set out in the wind.
The too much cloying choke of old Basil toasting
on its stem the way it does in summer and when you’re flat
in the deflated balloon days after Christmas: blue
in the metaphorical way
You wait for wind
to blow across the blue.
You mainlined too much internet: this Insta where a woman makes balloon
animals
And if you could, you’d lay your face against a flat
earth, loosening reality so it becomes a buoyant cartoon
That nightmare when Nan turned blue;,
Like breath or wind and you held her as she died
and at the end your love was a toasting.