Here is there is everywhere and still
I feel I am missing the coordinates
Weight falls slowly upwards through hand-quilted evenings.
Keys closed in the medicine cabinet because
I’m afraid I’ll lock myself in
to routine. Adventure grows white mold in its picture frame
while I try to fall asleep at 4 a.m. Mirrors are
roadblocks in the night: spruce
burns incense on the doorstep. I dance
with my lampshade shadow and
this is ecstasy.
the Polaroid Museum, but apple-pie tan just
isn’t a skin color.
“I’m sorry I can’t be there today”
We shatter ourselves
with flattery and end up in bed humming
the frayed edges of lullabies.