i wonder if i imagine the chorus of sweet peas when i awake,
or the smell of the neon green sun rising on the bay,
or the salt of the cold rain through my bare arms.
until one day i find you lying on the couch beside the woman
who can see so deeply into your soul that she must be a witch,
and she holds your head in her gnarly fingers.
you gaze into her voice,
and i know you also feel the lightning over the Grand Canyon,
that dances like it doesn't even know you're there.