Striped Mornings

This morning is red cacti, growing over my pattern thighs Sun discs and pitched tents of bent light I wake up to the currents in the ceiling My body rising like a thermometer Your voice slipping through my cracks or am I conceiving the beautiful things ? I lie flat, an alga in thrown waters waters shaping ferns moments in a quilt shivering in the winter sun I cannot see past the past I cannot see