This is a picture, not a pigture—
a small bright furnace dozing in a frame,
violet yawns, citrus murmurs, graphite ash.

Edges tilt like whispered stairways;
pink scales overlap—fish of memory—
swimming under eyelids that refuse to close.

Hypothesis: yellow is a heartbeat seen from above.
Counter-hypothesis: it’s a map of yesterday melting.
Synthesis: we call it now, trimmed to postcard size.

Smudge-winds pass; a knot of lines dreams animals.
Someone turns the world half-left and it becomes tender.
Touch here—heat gathers in the margin,
and the night learns to glow without instructions.