Pop Tart Poem

the blue from the sky distinguishes towns from losing all centre. a place as happy as clearing stays with us, colder but in a mild convulsion we let this touch our hands, together. we stop and then, tender, doesn't that mean we live? little things and smaller too. Pop Tarts sit in heaven toasty warm. we live n grass growing brown and the apples fell. fell with pure old times, that makes the best Pop Tart if not forever. forever becomes a definite impulse. loss is not as static as we once believed. the delicious crusty pleasure of going far for breakfast treat means something. something like Pop Tarts as bridge to a new word without prior meaning. we can have a poetry today, life still. another day, another blue or grey imitates sky. then when I say these structures abide, then I let a moon beam fill a poem. no, no poem lives like that, I just let myself think.