The other day I wrote a poem in six sections about heaven. In the first stanza, it was the universe in the musculature of an eye. And then it was an apple pie. And then pieces of glass folded like paper on a sea at night. And then a stanza which didn't make sense. Fifth, when a heart starts beating. Sixth, running outside.
The bonus seventh stanza: a goldfish curled into itself.
But: I forgot about the plazas in Spain. In the early morning. With the churros. And the hot chocolate.