Is it strange
to be unsettled
after a rainstorm has finished
clearing old dust and bones?
Why the yearning
for dirt and stone and moss
after a deep cleanse?
Could it be
we want to be returned
to a state of pure earth
where we revel in every touch
and breath like they are new revelations?
Are we afraid we will be lost
making our own way
after we spit in the eye
of a dreamweaver?

He rescued me
on a unicycle,
wielding
his mustache
and bow tie
against my
demons.

Ensconced
like in a womb
of my choosing
(with less judgement
and smoke than the previous),
picnicking shoeless
with a book
and my skirt hiked up for a causal air,
I look at a fractured landscape
through the windshield
-like a billowing Victorian prose
through fuzzy infant-sight.
I nod to another pod dweller
two cars over.
She’s having a burrito
and possibly an existential crisis.