The glare from the rim of my glasses

makes me see things that aren’t there,

often frightening shadows

or cartoon villains lurking about.

Hello, boa. Greetings, Snidely.

I hold on to daydreams, though

it’s not the safest habit for my psyche,

what with false warmth

and promises that will never bloom.

I read and read and read, hoping

to find a fragment of the divine

amongst flawed humanity.

I prefer modern poetry, mystery, and

19th century British explorer biographies.

Notes in the margins of “Paterson”

make me think there’s someone

out there who doesn’t believe in fairies.

Every time someone writes, there’s a trail

of comet dust that tastes of childhood.

I lap it up and sparkle from the inside.