feeling for the frame

Detail from The Farm, 1921-22 by Joan Miró

hot lips sped past in a blur of snow white as
a woman marches down the sidewalk, sipping 
on her torch as two other women, concluding 
their coffee date, beam beside the wings 
of the exoskeleton they arrived in. 

inked forearms folded across his chest, half black, 
half white backwards baseball cap spilling stringy 
black hair onto shoulders as he paces an empty 
parking space in a black concert tshirt, patterns 
of ink coiling around his calves...

pale frosty red headed woman enters with 
arms also folded across her chest, chin lifted 
imperiously, wearing a cranberry magic eye 
illusion dress. her entrance puts me in a trance. 

a lack of language does not inhibit the toddler girl 
from joining the adult conversation as she drums 
on a vinyl armchair with two wooden stir sticks.
blinking in the tea room, mourning my old enemies.

a ladder leans into blue sky. i look down and notice 
that i too am wearing blue sky but i don't remember 
ever climbing the ladder. this is our sunlit turn, i think. 
our style is failing, flamboyantly bursting toward its 
inevitable conclusion. feeling for the frame instead of 
flowing in the direction you are led. 

you are led, 
you are led.