nothing in my pockets,
just empty hands and tired dreams
.
hindered by ice and faulty bones
with just fragments of song
and nobody to dance with
.
doors are closing
at an alarming rate,
my god is cold and alone now
.
when I squint, the fields are an ocean
and we’re all unborn
In my house,
there’s lots of fuzz and woody things
and sometimes too much quiet.
In my lap,
I tend to fiddle with my hands
and fight the urge to describe everything.
In my yard,
a bird has walked across the snow,
leaving little prints that look like arrows.
In my cup,
I like to swirl hot liquids
that make my tongue celebrate being alive.
There’s no helmet for me
so I struggle with the weight
of all that falls
and lands in my hair,
terrors pinned in place
like corporal punishment
or any rank Tuesday.
Let’s eat like cavemen
and maintain our sense of childlike wonder;
maybe we won’t have to forage
for plants or letters or affection
or other silly attachments
after the next big bang.
