They'll never understand,
but we won't hold it against them.
There's an infinite space
beyond the upstairs' hemline
& upstairs, the windows spin,
trying their best to suck me in.
Backwards, towards advancement,
they try wadding my spine like T.P.,
only to have their fingers snap
like brittle ribbon pulled too taut.
See, we'll never understand,
but let's not hold it against us.
I notice my thoughts are made
from the same mettle a songbirds,
a gilded gong, Madeleines, words,
lid-filtered light & sugar packets.
Before long, we'll all be dead
& happy as a newborn.
A god wakes up after dreaming
seeming meanings, corporeally worn out.
There's a finite place for your failures.
My life is a voluptuous thought.