How do you feel, he asked? 

Thwarted, she answered, 

with swollen eyes and a sleepy gaze. 

It was too much to ask to stay contained 

inside that white shirt. So she didn’t. 

But somehow the dream turned 

from an open sky to a lizard gaze 

as 4500 fingers pressed buttons 

tilting the world a little to the left, 

leaving a trail of swallows and 

a rainbow of marshmallows to the right. 

How is your flight, he asked? 

Burningly happy, she answered, 

as they neither understood the pain 

nor could read directions 

as written in clouds.

There is a giant moving sidewalk 

slithering through the countryside, 

leaving bits of seeds and giggles 

to fall among last century’s circuitry. 

Men cut perfect toast points 

while women harvest their own eggs. 

As long as there are doughnuts, 

the children will be fed. 

We hold our truths to be self-involved 

while across the ocean, 

the queen’s raven is missing 

and there is an abundance of bowing. 

The old ways are so good in retrospect 

– like mashed potatoes and masked balls – 

but it’s a fine line between Eden and 

chaos and we willingly try both.

It’s eggs and muffins and bacon and juice

and potatoes and pancakes for dinner

and I’m looking at the bubbling

smelling the cooking imagining nothing

beyond this room

except tea later

when it’s clean and all is away

when stars begin to show through the veil

a light winter wind moves the brown limbs

on the tree dormant not far from me

as I sit dormant but aware

of distant blooms and grand schemes

that may or may not ever happen.