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.