my mind is like butter
on a warm palm, dripping
fronds of murky not-quite-somethings
into pools of less-than-nothings
staggering between wake and dream
thinking about how almost-always
is fairly-definitely nearly-enough
and what if the sky really did fall down
would it be bricks or feathers? i
listened hard and heard the crick-cracking
of a hundred grandparent-knees
and i knew, it must be bricks –
i crawled beneath the bed
and waited.
Image by BME.
