Standing on a shifting planet

staring at soft outlines of clouds

intermingling with each other

making sky fractals

remembering how important

maps used to be

before an inner gravity

pressed the landscape

into a non-nutritive pancake.

A little syrup and morning is redeemed

but the great gaping hole

in the middle of me

is greedy and this place is uninhabitable.

We’re unstuck

but not free.

I can only say

we ping

in the most

alluring way,

like pinballs

amassing

penalties.

It hurts if I push with the left

so I let go of the right burden

and I feel lighter…

but not graceful,

more like a mushroom

blooming and spewing spores

like words like sweet toxins

to make the time float higher.

I like when we rest.

I like soft moss beneath my feet.

I like how you pick up my thread

when I unravel.

A day like Rittenhouse Square, winter, 1993.

Smelling of subway steam,

unwashed homeless,

drafty theater with fresh popcorn,

pizza, cookies, new books,

wine, Old Bay, horse,

reefer, Tastycake frosting, and fatigue.

Looking like Currier & Ives after a bender.

Feeling like a cozy burial vault.

Not to be opened until middle age.