It’s hard to find the line

where make-believe takes over

as reality is so nebulous

in its cloudiness and curiosity

when heartsong makes all else fade.

I overhear a girl at the coffee shop

manifesting her dream. It’s catchy.

If I had a lock, I would hand you my key.

It’s noisy now most of the time outside

but I live in a quiet space of thoughts

spinning like eddies on a stream

rushing after a storm. I think it’s real.

Each step a made-up word,

seeing art in a parking lot snow pile

relying on an automated decision tree

to calculate how long before flight

A roadside flower across the country

imagining a red-walled library

and more clouds and more rain

whenever the chorus begins again

Maybe we’re meant to be bog people

taking our sin in a stew

or maybe we’re water fowl in disguise

I’m ready for dreams to take me to you

Each day is a small phrase

in a larger conversation

I seem to be behind in.

I jump the gun

but can never catch up

and my heart is often in my stomach

as I resign myself

to being out of place

and the odd one out.

I look back a little

and wonder how I come up with

the hopeful things,

the messages in moonlight,

the melody of a meadow

when I blink and all is bleak.

Is it question or statement

without punctuation

who can tell

how fitting

it is to travel to a house

that’s yours

just as a mailman’s route is his

or a highway to work is hers

a piece of real estate

not anybody’s

except for all the claims of time

and defined lines

just as an idea is theirs

and they are a they

inside two separate boxes

on a map

but inside one space

of heart that has blurry lines