it's winter's fault, because

Luke Carmichael Valmadrid

as magical an artist as you are, I still see
those folded lavender hues, peeking, tucked
in the corner of a volcanic canvas, bubbling, as if
the strokes themselves were boiling, and the draped layers
of cooler colors and soporific shapes were just
hypnoses with permission, hypnoses following someone else’s wishes,
the ones upon on the stars that knew nothing coarse
before they chose to burn, but never burned up, because the air here
is always a little colder; a Wisconsin winter is just a professional wrestler
that can pin the summer’s hundreds in a way
that makes the degrees soar, but preserves the permafrost
in my jaw so that I can’t quite tell you anything meaningful
when you ask what I think about your work.

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Enjoys cooking tofu, qualitative research, and playing video games with faraway friends. Hopes to make some music soon.

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