Them

 Throwing a large box of coins in the air hoping that the coins would fly or would get stuck in the clouds so as to effect a rain of coins whenever it rains next is what he thinks about sipping on his coffee on a top of a mountain sitting with a desk in front of him on which is his notebook in which he scribbles his poems in musical notations of so re mi fa so la to do doing his daily practice of scale measures – measure for measure a pound of flesh and blood and red, and bread – a loaf pound of bread with a heavy block of cheese seasoned with salt and little droplets pearls of lemon juice rocking the cradle in which the child baby is fast asleep dreaming about sheep that graze on grasslands green in every direction – from the north to the east and then from the south to the west wearing a bush-shirt in peacock blue copper sulphate crystals stripes of azure blue-sky like bunches of purple grapes filled with wines of tomorrow waiting to come out and house themselves in large seven-liter bottles of green glass walls that reflect the moans and sighs of the wine that’s asleep inside dreaming of sunshine and the cold falling water from cascades of milk and honey and silver juice stories about the rain that falls inside the forests, rain-forests and all the trees in them with branches that let little birds build their nests to lay and hatch their eggs in an endless cycle in which every tomorrow follow every today and every yesterday