She is the colour of everywhere

I have tried to move her slowly with my kisses,
digging in the earth of her garden,
beetles rich with dark carbon hums,
iridescent green hiding amongst the stones.

The sun pushes the buildings low,
but even here through the cracks
grow angry xlyophones.
Perhaps she doesn't see,
although she points and says it's different.

She is the colour of everywhere the sun lies down
and holds us in her arms
the grass is not soft here, so we stand
(at least, I think that's why -
perhaps we'll never know the truth of it)

No, not like molasses

She is slow like children;
the clock before she arrives is different.
The morning unfolds slowly, but she runs
-this way and there-
and when she arrives, flushed and happy,
here has moved only a little.
...and the flowers have new colours here
like her shoes, which are the same
and don't sound at all like falling into water,
their swishing a sound I don't quite remember.