This is a pigture, certified by the spiral of its nose.
The day wears blue like a loud idea;
grass practices its green alphabet;
your ears translate wind into maybe.

You step out of the paper with pink thunder,
scribble-lines jitter like excited nerves,
charcoal thinking, raspberry laughter—
oink is a verb meaning “rearrange reality.”

Hypothesis: every patch of red is borrowed sunrise.
Counter-hypothesis: the shadows are rehearsing night.
Synthesis: we keep both, call it jazz for mud.

Look at us looking back—
two ellipses of nostril, twin portals,
pulling the world into the bright, ridiculous yes.