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.