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.