Thursday, April 03, 2014

Which Fairy Tale Do I think I Am

Reading a book
curled in a chair
by the window
like a hidden clue —
and far outside
wind winds itself
around tense trees —
in knots with
alien sounds —
and thoughts are
widdershins to how
people walk down
the sidewalk, down
the pathways —
how their lives
unravel like grey
dandelion — without
direction — how each
moment is another drop
of entropy in the
bucket of days
folded like fresh wash
and overflowing —
how the imagination
leaks into the vacuum
twisting and recreating
and mice rear and buck
while a shoe is lost
and a better life is
discovered — although
nothing really happens.

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