And all the constellations, shine down for us to see
And if you don't believe me, just put your hands on me
Don’t quote me on the physics of it all,
but I know the lightweight innards
the crackling, fibrous bones
of a dove, or a bird like it, make for
an easier flight, than say, perhaps, you or I.
That doesn’t mean it’s impossible
blue sky world.
I’m content to befriend
the pattern of lines spinning about your ceiling.
Eyes closed
as you drift conspicuously back toward
the weight of the floor.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment