om the out
side into the window.

An armoire. Yellow or
looming several blocks.

A drop-in drone wants only
the price of oranges, turnips.

I misunderstand
every language in my town.

My friends explain bash
full, only iterated
in river swerving.

A goth sheep plays
a sad tune from her tulip
player. A sad goat cannot seem
to cover the dirt in the floor.
He tells me the bugs keep climbing
through. I imagine them walking
through his hair at night. He tells me
he dreamt we watched a sunset.

I don’t know how I understand him.
I don’t know how I understand him.

The cat with two-colored
eyes gifts a chef’s smock
I will never wear. The bull guffaws
from the top of his hill.

A purple frog laughs
and I laugh back and
she laughs back and I laugh
back.

One of my trees is overcome by
the heaviness of the sound
of currency—slashed down.

A new armoire
here. A new room. Multiplies.
Another window too bright.

Another portal
Not substantial.

Inside the window
you can see
outside vapor
a peripheral hope
of an outside world.

You cannot see inside.

Kari Flickinger’s poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Rhysling Award. She is an alumna of UC Berkeley and The Community of Writers. Find her: @kariflickinger kariflickinger.com.