The sun doesn’t discriminate
between my lawn and my neighbor’s.
Trees bend
across time zones.
Stone is constant
until mighty winds do their slow dance,
taking away pieces
tasting of eons
to far-flung corners of lonesome fields
and busy crosswalks.
Birdsong remains ever true.
Night always follows day.

I keep making mistakes,
like feeling I must explain
colors I see
against the same stone wall
each day,
or being afraid of the alone,
or believing
lost is unimportant.

I see my own spectrum
and even when I don’t move,
I am lost
and it is important.

this is how my distraction
feels, like real life in a jelly;
sticky and vibrant
inside a hand-bowl
like memories seeping through
(a heathen sieve)
with strains of bells
from far away angels
reminding me
of waterfalls’ treachery
and sandman’s lechery
before I come to,
and face Tuesday