an armada of yellow riding mowers each w/an umbrella
for a sunscreen scaled the knoll & approached crayola,
she'd stationed herself atop a crate of mangoes waiting

for the rain to come & mop the deposits from her eyes,
this was her wednesday & there'd be no believing, not
w/an upper atmosphere filled near to bursting w/orbital

sidecars & the inanimate extensions of thin fingers able
to coddle the light into what passed for oceans & arks,
an armada of mowers enclosing crayola, in her tropics.