Thursday, April 28, 2011

At The Desk Of Someone Normal

A fleet of dying pages floats a glass desk and
their symbols simmer under a warm, wet pen.
The name Rebekah unties itself with scissors
while the rest drift south into isolation—into
a void on the page in the trash by the desk.
I stare intently into the slice of paper. An audience
might expect me to do anything with it, but
I'm stuck in the inbetween.

I think about how tiny islands of dust float inside
our skulls like spaceships docking
while electrons rip holes and tell us how to be.

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