Unlocked.
Air so heavy
gallons of fog and sweat
grass on the cusp of fading
a breath means laboring
tossing the head back
to look up at a hazy night
yet the stars persist
(I named one after you)
we can stare until dizzy
with music implied
while we stand still
amid a spinning world
limbs heavy / dreams light
wondering if we’re close
to finding a place to land.
Her dance con brio
was inspired by a spinner
growing more intense every second
until she was as luminous as lightning
but was it enough
to stand against night like white gold,
recalling Theia, a siren time traveler
gifted with stories of storms at sea.
She was the cynosure of all the moons
held in quiet repose with the lotus
as it floated near the spinner.
There’s less noise
with the window closed
but mountains call
the gaze to roam
.
we’re not talking weather
or stocks or death by committee
.
but the myth of serenity
as it floats like laughter
from some faraway childhood
a mourning dove’s call
dominates the moonlit hills
and there’s no answer
I’m in a place I must be quiet,
be reserved, behave.
It’s a genuine struggle, especially
some days when I want to laugh too loudly
and spin in a circle like in a meadow,
when I’d rather stare at the sky
and find us in cloud shapes
instead of endure corporate-speak
and carpeting and files.
.
Today I am purple inside and grey outside.
I avert my wild-eyes so no one notices.
I am behaving except in daydreams.
