The radio plays
like the city’s no more.
It drifts—
Like penguins, we stand on the beach.
A wind blows—we turn toward it,
uplift our faces and close our eyes.
Inhale—nothing happening
on all rational levels—
grey matter is quiet, quiet, quiet.
At home I slowly ease myself to the floor—
toes to knees to shoulder to head.
I roll over to witness the ceiling.
I press my palms then sink—
I feel my body. I’m inside it.
No comments:
Post a Comment