I mean there are things drowning in my EYEballs on the regular,
my skin circles me as I shed, my face turns toward me, expectantly
listening as my voice--out there--somewhere, fizzes like a walkie-talkie.
No one is sure where we are anymore, and if they are, we yell "fake! fake"
until they turn and blip away. It is an autumn morning inside a beautiful painting
drunk on beauty, high on drugs, wandering around in something someone made up.
Sometimes our laughter or tears escape us slowly, and we try to urge them on:
be free, be free of us! You can do it! Then life feels like a summer afternoon--so very
long, all about the waiting, words breathing themselves to life--trying to find their source.